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1B70 


THE 


PERSONAL  HISTORY 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 


BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


NEW   YORK 
JOHN  W.    LOVELL   COMPANY 

150  Worth  Sirket,  corner  Mission  Place 


>^^ 


\ 


3,-1, 


/A 


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;^ 


7 


PREFACE 


I  REMARKED  in  the  original  Preface  to  this  Book,  that  i  did  not 
find  it  easy  to  get  sufficiently  far  away  from  it,  in  the  first  sensations 
of  having  finished  it,  to  refer  to  it  with  the  composure  which  this 
formal  heading  would  seem  to  require.  My  interest  in  it  was  so  recent 
and  strong,  and  my  mind  was  so  divided  between  pleasure  and  regret — ■ 
pleasure  in  the  achievement  of  a  long  design,  regret  in  the  separation 
from  many  companions — that  I  was  in  danger  of  wearying  the  reader 
with  personal  confidences  and  private  emotions. 

Besides  which,  all  that  I  could  have  said  of  the  Story  to  any  purpose, 
I  had  endeavored  to  say  in  it. 

It  would  concern  the  reader  little,  perhaps,  to  know  how  sorrowfully 
the  pen  is  laid  down  at  the  close  of  a  two-years'  imaginative  task;  or  how 
an  Author  feels  as  if  he  were  dismissing  some  portion  of  himself  into  .the 
shadowy  world,  when  a  crowd  of  the  creatures  of  his  brain  are  going  from 
him  forever.  Yet  I  had  nothing  else  to  tell;  unless,  indeed,  I  were  to 
confess  (which  might  be  of  less  moment  still)  that  no  one  can  ever  believe 
this  Narrative,  in  the  reading,  more  than  I  believed  it  in  the  writing. 

So  true  are  these  avowals  at  the  present  day,  that  I  can  now  only  take 
the  reader  into  one  confidence  more.  Of  all  my  books,  I  like. this  the 
best.  It  will  be  easily  believed  that  I  am  a  fond  parent  to  every  child  of 
my  fancy,  and  that  no  one  can  ever  love  that  family  as  dearly  as  I  love 
them.  But,  like  many  fond  parents,  I  have  in  my  heart  of  hearts  a 
favorite  child.     And  his  name  is  David  Copperfield. 


ivil94:472 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I. — I  am  born 7 

II. — I  observe. i8 

III. — I  have  a  Change 33 

IV. — I  fall  into  Disgrace 48 

V. — I  am  sent  away  from  Home , .,_ 67 

VI. — I  enlarge  my  Circle  of  Acquaintance 85 

VII.— My  "  first  half  "  at  Salem  House 92 

VlII. — My  Holidays.     Especially  one  Happy  Afternoon....  no 

IX. — I  have  a  memorable  Birthday 125 

X. — I  become  neglected  and  am  provided  for 136 

XI. — I  begin  Life  on  my  own  Account,  and  don't  like  it. . .  156 

XII. — Liking  Life  on  my  own  Account  no  better,  I  form  a 

great  Resolution 171 

XIIL— The  Sequel  of  my  Resolution 181 

XIV. — My  Aunt  makes  up  her  Mind  about  me 200 

XV. — I  make  another  Beginning 216 

XVI. — I  am  a  New  Boy  in  more  senses  than  one 225 

XVII. — Somebody  turns  up 247 

XVIII.— A  Retrospect ! 264 

XIX. — I  look  about  me,  and  make  a  Discovery 271 

XX.— Steerforth's  Home 288 

XXL— Little  Em'ly 296 

XXII. — Some  old  Scenes,  and  some  new  People. 316 

XXIII. — I  corroborate  Mr.  Dick,  and  choose  a  Profession 338 

XXIV. — My  first  Dissipation 353 

XXV. — Good  and  bad  Angels 361 

XXVI.— I  fall  into  Captivity  ,  380 

XXVIL— Tommy  Traddles 396 

XXVIIL— Mr.  Micawber's  Gauntlet 405 

XXIX, — I  visit  Steerforth  at  his  Home,  again 425 


6  CONTENTS. 

PA-GE. 

XXX.— A  Loss 433 

XXXI.— A  greater  Loss 44i 

XXXII. — The  beginning  of  a  long  Journey 45^ 

XXXIIL— Blissful  ...    468 

XXXIV.— My  Aunt  astonishes  me 485  ; 

XXXV.— Depression 493 

XXXVI.— Enthusiasm 5i4 

XXXVII.— A  little  Cold  Water 53i 

XXXVIII— A  Dissolution  of  Partnership 539 

XXXIX.— Wickfield  and  Keep 555 

XL.— The  Wanderer 574 

XLL— Dora's  Aunts 583 

XLII.— Mischief 599 

XLIIL— Another  Retrospect 619 

XLIV. — Our  Housekeeping ' 627 

XLV.— Mr.  Dick  fulfils  my  Aunt's  Prediction 642 

XLVL— Intelligence , 657 

XLVIL— Martha 671 

XLVIII.— Domestic 682 

XLIX. — I  am  involved  in  Mystery 693 

L. — Mr.  Peggotty's  Dream  comes  true 706 

LI, — The  Beginning  of  a  longer  Journey 716 

LII. — I  assist  at  an  Explosion. , 733 

LIII.— Another  Retrospect 757 

LIV. — Mr.  Micawber's  Transactions 762 

LV. — Tempest 777 

LVI.— The  new  Wound,  and  the  old 789 

LVII.— The  Emigrants 795 

LVIII.— Absence 805 

LIX.— Return , 812 

LX.— Agnes 82S 

LXI. — I  am  shown  two  interesting  Penitents 837 

l^XII. — A  Light  shines  on  my  way , 849 

^XIIL- A  Visitor 857 

LXIV.— A  last  Retrospect 855 


THE 

PERSONAL  HISTORY  AND  EXPERIENCE 

OF 

DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

THE     YOUNGER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I    AM    BORN. 

Whether  I  shall  turn  out  to  be  the  hero  of  my  own  life, 
or  whether  that  station  will  be  held  by  any  body  else,  these 
pages  must  show.  To  begin  my  life  with  the  beginning  of 
my  hfe,  I  record  that  I  was  born  (as  I  have  been  informed 
and  believe)  on  a  Friday,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night.  It  was 
remarked  that  the  clock  began  to  strike,  and  I  began  to  cry, 
simultaneously. 

In  consideration  of  the  day  and  hour  of  my  birth,  it  was 
declared  by  the  nurse,  and  by  some  sage  women  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  had  taken  a  lively  interest  in  me  several  months 
before  there  was  any  possibility  of  our  becoming  personally 
acquainted;  first,  that  I  was  destined  to  be  unlucky  in  life; 
and  secondly,  that  I  was  privileged  to  see  ghosts  and  spirits 
— both  these  gifts  inevitably  attaching,  as  they  believed,  to 
all  unlucky  infants,  of  either  gender,  born  towards  the  small 
hours  on  a  Friday  night. 

I  need  say  nothing  here,  on  the  first  head,  because  nothing 
can  show  better  than  my  history  whether  that  prediction 
was  verified  or  falsified  by  the  result.  On  the  second  branch 
of  the  question,  I  will  only  remark,  that  unless  I  ran  through 
that  part  of  my  inheritance  while  I  was  still  a  baby,  I  have 
not  come  into  it  yet.  But  I  do  not  at  all  complain  of  having 
been  kept  out  of  this  property;  and  if  any  body  else  should 
be  in  the  present  enjoyment  of  it,  he  is  heartily  welcome  to 
keep  it. 

I  was  born  with  a  caul,  which  was  advertised  for  sale,  in 
the  newspapers,  at  the  low  price  of  fifteen  guineas.     Whether 


^IV    .\'':-*PAyiD   COPPERFIELD. 

rsDa'r^itng '; people  ;  we're  khort  of  money  about  that  time, 
'.or  Vere'short  of'ifaith*ahd  preferred  cork-jackets,  I  don't 
know;  all  I  know  is,  that  there  was. but  one  solitary  bidding, 
and  that  was  from  an  attorney  connected  with  the  bill-brok- 
ing business,  who  offered  two  pounds  in  cash,  and  the  balance 
in  sherry,  but  declined  to  be  guaranteed  from  drowning  on 
any  higher  bargain.  Consequently  the  advertisement  was 
withdrawn  at  a  dead  loss — for  as  to  sherry,  my  poor  dear 
mother's  own  sherry  was  in  the  market  then — and  ten  years 
afterwards  the  caul  was  put  up  in  a  raffle  down  in  our  part 
of  the  country  to  fifty  members  at  half-a-crown  a  head,  the 
winner  to  spend  five  shillings.  I  was  present  myself,  and  I 
remember  to  have  felt  quite  uncomfortable  and  confused,  at 
a  part  of  myself  being  disposed  of  in  that  way.  The  caul 
was  won,  I  recollect,  by  an  old  lady  with  a  hand-basket,  who 
very  reluctantly  produced  from  it  the  stipulated  five  shillings, 
all  in  halfpence,  and  twopence  halfpenny  short;  as  it  took  an 
immense  time  and  a  great  waste  of  arithmetic  to  endeavor 
without  any  effect  to  prove  to  her.  It  is  a  fact  which  will  be 
long  remembered  as  remarkable  down  there,  that  she  was 
never  drowned,  but  died  triumphantly  in  bed,  at  ninety-two. 
I  have  understood  that  it  was,  to  the  last,  her  proudest  boast, 
that  she  never  had  been  on  the  water  in  her  life  except  upon 
a  bridge;  and  that  over  her  tea  (to  which  she  was  extremely 
partial)  she,  to  the  last,  expressed  her  indignation  at  the 
impiety  of  mariners  and  others  who  had  the  presumption  to 
go  "  meandering  "  about  the  world.  It  was  in  vain  to  repre- 
sent to  her  that  some  conveniences,  tea  perhaps  included,  re- 
sulted from  this  objectionable  practice.  She  always  returned 
with  greater  emphasis  and  with  an  instinctive  knowledge  of 
the  strength  of  her  objection,  "  Let  us  have  no  meandering." 
Not  to  meander,  myself,  at  present,  I  will  go  back  to  my 
birth. 
"^  I  was  born  at  Blunderstone,  in  Suffolk,  or  "  thereby,"  as 
they  say  in  Scotland.  I  was  a  posthumous  child.  My 
father's  eyes  had  closed  upon  the  light  of  this  world  six 
months,  when  mine  opened  on  it.  There  is  something  strange 
to  me,  even  now,  in  the  reflection  that  he  never  saw  me,  and 
something  stranger  yet  in  the  shadowy  remembrance  that  I 
have  of  my  first  childish  associations  with  his  white  grave- 
stone in  the  churchyard,  and  of  the  indefinable  compassion 
I  used  to  feel  for  it  lying  out  alone  there  in  the  dark  night, 
when  our   little  parlor  was  warm   and  bright   with  fire   and 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  9 

candle,  and  the  doors  of  our  house  were — almost  cruelly  it 
seemed  to  me  sometimes — bolted  and  locked  against  it. 

An  aunt  of  my  father's,  and  consequently  a  great-aunt  of 
mine,  of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to  relate  by  and  by,  was 
the  principal  magnate  of  our  family.  Miss  Trotwood,  or  Miss 
Betsey,  as  my  poor  mother  always  called  her,  when  she  suffi- 
ciently overcame  her  dread  of  this  formidable  personage  to 
mention  her  at  all  (which  was  seldom),  had  been  married  to 
a  husband  younger  than  herself,  who  was  very  handsome,  ex- 
cept in  the  sense  of  the  homely  adage,  "  handsome  is,  that 
handsome  does  " — for  he  was  strongly  suspected  of  having 
beaten  Miss  Betsey,  and  even  of  having  once,  on  a  disputed 
question  of  supphes,  made  some  hasty  but  determined  ar- 
rangements to  throw  her  out  of  a  two  pair  of  stairs'  window. 
These  evidences  of  an  incompatibility  of  temper  induced  Miss 
Betsey  to  pay  him  off,  and  effect  a  separation  by  mutual  con- 
sent. He  went  to  India  with  his  capital,  and  there,  accord- 
ing to  a  wild  legend  in  our  family,  he  was  once  seen  riding 
on  an  elephant,  in  company  with  a  Baboon  ;  but  I  think  it 
must  have  been  a  Baboo — or  a  Begum.  Any  how,  from  India 
tidings  of  his  death  reached  home,  within  ten  years.  How 
they  affected  my  aunt,  nobody  knew  ;  for  immediately  upon 
the  separation,  she  took  her  maiden  name  again,  bought 
a  cottage  in  a  hamlet  on  the  sea-coast  a  long  way  off,  estab- 
lished herself  there  as  a  single  woman,  with  one  servant,  and 
was  understood  to  live  secluded,  ever  afterwards,  in  an  in- 
flexible retirement. 

My  father  had  once  been  a  favorite  of  hers,  I  believe,  but, 
she  was  mortally  affronted  by  his  marriage  on  the  ground 
that  my  mother  was  "  a  wax  doll."  She  had  never  seen  my 
mother,  but  she  knew  her  to  be  not  yet  twenty.  My  father  and 
Miss  Betsey  never  met  again.  He  was  double  my  mother's 
age  when  he  married,  and  of  but  a  delicate  constitution.  He 
died  a  year  afterwards,  and,  as  I  have  said,  six  months  before 
I  came  into  the  world. 

This  was  the  state  of  matters,  on  the  afternoon  of  what  I 
may  be  excused  for  calling,  that  eventful  and  important  Fri- 
day. I  can  make  no  claim  therefore  to  have  known,  at  that 
time,  how  matters  stood;  or  to  have  any  remembrance, 
founded  upon  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses,  of  what  fol- 
lows. 

My  mother  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  but  poorly  in  health, 
and  very  low  in  spirits,  looking  at  it  through  her  tears,  and 


lo  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

desponding  heavily  about  herself  and  the  fatherless  little 
stranger  who  was  already  welcomed  by  some  grosses  of  some 
prophetic  pins  in  a  drawer  up-stairs,  to  a  world  not  at  all  ex- 
cited on  the  subject  of  his  arrival  ;  my  mother,  I  say,  was  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  that  bright,  windy  March  afternoon,  very 
timid  and  sad,  and  very  doubtful  of  ever  coming  alive  out  of 
the  trial  that  was  before  her  ;  when,  lifting  her  eyes  as  she 
dried  them,  to  the  window  opposite,  she  saw  a  strange  lady 
coming  up  the  garden. 

My  mother  had  a  sure  foreboding  at  the  second  glance, 
that  it  was  Miss  Betsey.  The  setting  sun  was  glowing  on  the 
strange  lady,  over  the  garden-fence,  and  she  came  walking  up 
to  the  door  with  a  fell  rigidity  of  figure  and  composure  of 
countenance  that  could  have  belonged  to  nobody  else. 

When  she  reached  the  house  she  gave  another  proof  of  her 
identity.  My  father  had  often  hinted  that  she  seldom  con- 
ducted herself  like  any  ordinary  Christian  ;  and  now,  instead 
of  ringing  the  bell,  she  came  and  looked  in  at  that  identi- 
cal window,  pressing  the  end  of  her  nose  against  the  glass  to 
that  extent,  that  my  poor  dear  mother  used  to  say  it  became 
perfectly  flat  and  white  in  a  moment. 

She  gave  my  mother  such  a  turn,  that  I  have  always  been 
convinced  I  am  indebted  to  Miss  Betsey  for  having  been 
born  on  a  Friday. 

My  mother  had  left  her  chair  in  her  agitation,  and  gone 
behind  it  in  the  corner.  Miss  Betsey,  looking  round  the 
room,  slowly  and  inquiringly,  began  on  the  other  side,  and 
carried  her  eyes  on  like  a  Saracen's  Head  in  a  Dutch  clock, 
until  they  reached  my  mother.  Then  she  made  a  frown  and  a 
gesture  to  my  mother,  like  one  who  is  accustomed  to  be 
obeyed,  to  come  and  open  the  door.     My  mother  went. 

*'  Mrs.  David  Copperfield,  I  think,''  said  Miss  Betsey;  the 
emphasis  referring,  perhaps,  to  my  mother's  mourning 
weeds,  and  her  condition. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  mother,  faintly. 

"  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  the  visitor.  '*  You  have  heard  of 
her,  I  dare  say  ?" 

My  mother  answered  she  had  had  that  pleasure.  And  she 
had  a  disagreeable  consciousness  of  not  appearing  to  imply 
that  it  had  been  an  overpowering  pleasure. 

**  Now  you  see  her,"  said  Miss  Betsey.  My  mother  bent 
her  head,  and  begged  her  to  walk  in. 

They  went  into  the  parlor  my  mother  had  come  from — 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  ri 

the  fire  in  the  best  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage  not 
being  Hghted;  not  having  been  Hghted,  indeed,  since  my 
father's  funeral — and  when  they  were  both  seated,  and  Miss 
Betsey  said  nothing,  my  mother,  after  vainly  trying  to  re- 
strain herself,  began  to  cry. 

*'  Oh,  tut,  tut,  tut!"  said  Miss  Betsey,  in  a  hurry.  "  Don't 
do  that!     Come,  come!" 

My  mother  couldn't  help  it  notwithstanding,  so  she  cried 
until  she  had  had  her  cry  out. 

"  Take  off  your  cap,  child,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  **  and  let  me 
see  you." 

My  mother  was  too  much  afraid  of  her  to  refuse  compliance 
with  this  odd  request,  if  she  had  any  disposition  to  do  so. 
Therefore  she  did  as  she  was  told,  and  did  it  with  such  ner- 
vous hands  that  her  hair  (which  was  luxuriant  and  beautiful) 
fell  all  about  her  face. 

"  Why,  bless  my  heart  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey.  "  You 
are  a  very  Baby!" 

My  mother  was,  no  doubt,  unusually  youthful  in  appear- 
ance even  for  her  years;  she  hung  her  head,  as  if  it  were  her 
fault,  poor  thing,  and  said,  sobbing,  that  indeed  she  was  afraid 
she  was  but  a  childish  widow,  and  would  be  but  a  childish 
mother  if  she  Hved.  In  a  short  pause  which  ensued,  she  had 
a  fancy  that  she  felt  Miss  Betsey  touch  her  hair,  and  that  with 
no  ungentle  hand;  but,  looking  at  her,  in  her  timid  hope,  she 
found  that  lady  sitting  with  the  skirt  of  her  dress  tucked  up, 
her  hands  folded  on  one  knee,  and  her  feet  upon  the 
fender,  frowning  at  the  fire. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  suddenly, 
"  why  Rookery?" 

"  Do  you  mean  the  house,  ma'am?"  asked  my  mother. 

"  Why  Rookery?"  said  Miss  Betsey.  "  Cookery  would 
have  been  more  to  the  purpose,  if  you  had  had  any  practical 
ideas  of  life,  either  of  you." 

"  The  name  was  Mr.  Copperfi eld's  choice,"  returned  my 
mother.  "  When  he  bought  the  house,  he  liked  to  think  that 
there  were  rooks  about  it." 

The  evening  wind  made  such  a  disturbance  just  now, 
among  some  tall  old  elm  trees  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
that  neither  my  mother  nor  Miss  Betsey  could  forbear  glanc- 
ing that  way.  As  the  elms  bent  to  one  another,  like  giants 
who  were  whispering  secrets,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of  such 
repose,  fell  into  a  violent  flurry,  tossing  their  wild  arms  about, 


12  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

as  if  their  late  confidences  were  really  too  wicked  for  their 
peace  of  mind,  some  weather-beaten  ragged  old  rooks'  nests 
burdening  their  higher  branches,  swung  like  wrecks  upon  a 
stormy  sea. 

"  Where  are  the  birds?"  asked  Miss  Betsey. 

"  The  ?"  My  mother  had  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

''  The  rooks — what  have  become  of  them?"  asked  Miss 
Betsey. 

"  There  have  not  been  any  since  we  have  lived  here,"  said 
my  mother.  "  We  thought — Mr.  Copperfield  thought — it 
was  quite  a  large  rookery,  but  the  nests  were  very  old  ones, 
and  the  birds  have  deserted  them  a  long  while." 

"  David  Copperfield  all  over!"  cried  Miss  Betsey.  "  David 
Copperfield  from  head  to  foot!  Calls  a  house  a  rookery 
when  there's  not  a  rook  near  it,  and  takes  the  birds  on  trust, 
because  he  sees  the  nests!" 

''  Mr.  Copperfield,"  returned  my  mother,  "  is  dead,  and  if 
you  dare  to  speak  unkindly  of  him  to  me " 

My  poor  dear  mother,  I  suppose,  had  some  momentary  in- 
tention of  committing  an  assault  and  battery  upon  my  aunt, 
who  could  easily  have  settled  her  with  one  hand,  even  if  my 
mother  had  been  in  far  better  training  for  such  an  encounter 
than  she  was  that  evening.  But  it  passed  with  the  action  of 
rising  from  her  chair;  and  she  sat  down  again  very  meekly, 
and  fainted. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  or  when  Miss  Betsey  had  re- 
stored her,  whichever  it  was,  she  found  the  latter  standing  at 
the  window.  The  twilight  was  by  this  time  shading  down 
into  darkness;  and  dimly  as  they  saw  each  other,  they  could 
not  have  done  that,  without  the  aid  of  the  fire. 

'^  Well?"  said  Miss  Betsey,  coming  back  to  her  chair,  as  if 
she  had  only  been  taking  a  casual  view  at  the  prospect;  *'  and 
when  do  you  expect " 

"  I  am  all  in  a  tremble!"  faltered  my  mother.  "  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter.     I  shall  die,  I  am  sure!" 

*'  No,  no,  no,"  said  Miss  Betsey.     "  Have  some  tea." 

"  Oh  dear  me,  dear  me,  do  you  think  it  will  do  me  any 
good?"  cried  my  mother  in  a  helpless  manner. 

"  Of  course  it  will,"  said  Miss  Betsey.  "  It's  nothing  but 
fancy.     What  do  you  call  your  girl?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  will  be  a  girl  yet,  ma'am,"  said  my 
mother  innocently. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  13 

"Bless  the  Baby!"  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey,  unconsciously 
quoting  the  second  sentiment  of  the  pincushion  in  the  drawer 
up  stairs,  but  applying  it  to  my  mother  instead  of  me.  "  I 
don't  mean  that.     I  mean  your  servant  girl." 

"  Peggotty,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Peggotty,"  repeated  Miss  Betsey,  with  some  indignation. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  child,  that  any  human  being  has  gone 
Into  a  Christian  church  and  got  herself  named  Peggotty?" 

"  It's  her  surname,"  said  my  mother,  faintly.  "  Mr.  Cop- 
perfield  called  her  by  it,  because  her  Christian  name  was  the 
same  as  mine." 

"Here!  Peggotty!"  said  Miss  Betsey,  opening  the  parlor 
door.  "  Tea.  Your  mistress  is  a  little  unwell.  Don't 
dawdle." 

Having  issued  this  mandate  with  as  much  potentiality  as  if 
she  had  been  a  recognized  authority  in  the  house  ever  since 
it  had  been  a  house,  and  having  looked  out  to  confront  the 
amazed  Peggotty  coming  along  the  passage  with  a  candle  at 
the  sound  of  a  strange  voice,  Miss  Betsey  shut  the  door 
again,  and  sat  down  as  before,  with  her  feet  on  the  fender, 
the  skirt  of  her  dress  tucked  up,  and  her  hands  folded  on  one 
knee. 

"  You  were  speaking  about  its  being  a  girl,"  said  Miss  Bet- 
Bey.  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  a  girl.  I  have  a  presenti- 
ment that  it  must  be  a  girl.  Now,  child,  from  the  moment 
of  the  birth  of  this  girl " 

"  Perhaps  boy,"  my  mother  took  the  liberty  of  putting  in. 

*^  I  tell  you  I  have  a  presentiment  that  it  must  be  a  girl," 
returned  Miss  Betsey.  "  Don't  contradict.  From  the  mo- 
ment of  this  girl's  birth,  child,  I  intend  to  be  her  friend.  I 
intend  to  be  her  godmother,  and  I  beg  you'll  call  her  Betsey 
Trotwood  Copperfield.  There  must  be  no  mistakes  in  life 
with  this  Betsey  Trotwood.  There  must  be  no  trifling  with 
her  affections,  poor  dear.  She  must  be  well  brought  up,  and 
well  guarded  from  reposing  any  foolish  confidences  where 
they  are  not  deserved.     I  must  make  that  my  care." 

There  was  a  twitch  of  Miss  Betsey's  head,  after  each  of 
these  sentences,  as  if  her  own  old  wrongs  were  working  within 
her,  and  she  repressed  any  plainer  reference  to  them  by' 
strong  restraint.  So  my  mother  suspected  at  least,  as  she 
observed  her  by  the  low  glimmer  of  the  fire;  too  much  scared 
by  Miss  Betsey,  too  uneasy  in  herself,  and  too  subdued  and 
bewildered  altogether,  to  observe  anything  very  clearly,  or  to 
know  what  to  say. 


14  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  And  was  David  good  to  you,  child?"  asked  Miss  Betsey, 
when  she  had  been  silent  for  a  Httle  while,  and  these  motions 
of  her  head  had  gradually  ceased.  "  Wfere  you  comfortable 
together?" 

"  We  were  very  happy,"  said  my  mother.  "  Mr.  Copper- 
field  was  only  too  good  to  me." 

"  What,  he  spoilt  you,  I  suppose?  "  returned  Mis's  Betsey. 

"  For  being  quite  alone  and  dependent  on  myself  in  this 
rough  world  again,  yes,  I  fear  he  did  indeed,"  sobbed  my 
mother. 

"  Well!  Don't  cry!  "  said  Miss  Betsey.  "  You  were  not 
equally  matched,  child — if  any  two  people  can  be  equally 
matched — and  so  I  asked  the  question.  You  were  an  orphan, 
weren't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  a  governess? " 

*'  I  was  nursery-governess  in  a  family  where  Mr,  Copper- 
field  came  to  visit.  Mr.  Copperfield  was  very  kind  to  me, 
and  took  a  great  deal  of  notice  of  me,  and  paid  me  a  good 
deal  of  attention,  and  at  last  proposed  to  me.  And  I  ac- 
cepted him.  And  so  we  were  married,"  said  my  mother 
simply. 

*' Ha!  poor  baby!"  mused  Miss  Betsey,  with  her  frown 
still  bent  upon  the  fire.     "  Do  you  know  any  thing?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ma'am,"  faltered  my  mother. 

*'  About  keeping  house,  for  instance,"  said  Miss  Betsey. 

*'  Not  much  I  fear,'*  returned  my  mother.  "  Not  so  much 
as  I  could  wish.     But  Mr.  Copperfield  was  teaching  me — " 

("  Much  he  knew  about  it  himself!"  said  Miss  Betsey  in  a 
parenthesis.) 

— "  And  I  hope  I  should  have  improved,  being  very  anx- 
ious to  learn,  and  he  very  patient  to  teach,  if  the  great  mis- 
fortune of  his  death" — my  mother  broke  down  again  here, 
and  could  get  no  farther. 

"Well,  well!"  said  Miss  Betsey. 

— "  I  kept  my  Housekeeping-Book  regularly  and  balanced 
it  with  Mr.  Copperfield  every  night,"  cried  my  mother  '\x\ 
another  burst  of  distress,  and  breaking  down  again. 

"Well,  well!"  said  Miss  Betsey.     "Don't  cry  any  more." 

— "  And  I  am  sure  we  never  had  a  word  of  difference  re- 
specting it,  except  when  Mr,  Copperfield  objected  to  my 
threes  and  fives  being  too  much  like  each  other,  or  to  my 
putting  curly  tails  to   my  sevens  and  nines,"   resumed  my 


DAVID  COPPERFIED.  15 

mother    in    another     burst,    and     breaking    down    again. 

"  You'll  make  yourself  ill,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  "  and  you 
know  that  will  not  be  good  either  for  you  or  for  my  god- 
daughter.    Come!     You  mustn't  do  it!" 

This  argument  had  some  share  in  quieting  my  mother, 
though  her  increasing  indisposition  perhaps  had  a  larger  one. 
There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  only  broken  by  Miss 
Betsey's  occasionally  ejaculating  "  Ha!"  as  she  sat  with  her 
feet  upon  the  fender. 

"  David  had  bought  an  annuity  for  himself  with  his  money, 
I  know,"  said  she,  by  and  by.     "  What  did  he  do  for  you?" 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  my  mother,  answering  with  some 
difficulty,  "  was  so  considerate  and  good  as  to  secure  the 
reversion  of  a  part  of  it  to  me." 

"  How  much?"  asked  Miss  Betsey. 

"  A  hundred  and  five  pounds  a  year,"  said  my  mother. 

"  He  might  have  done  worse,"  said  my  aunt. 

The  word  was  appropriate  to  the  moment.  My  mother 
was  so  much  worse  that  Peggotty,  coming  in  with  the  tea- 
board  and  candles,  and  seeing  at  a  glance  how  ill  she  was, — 
ars  Miss  Betsey  might  have  done  sooner  if  there  had  been 
light  enough, — conveyed  her  up  stairs  to  her  own  room  with 
all  speed,  and  immediately  dispatched  Ham  Peggotty,  her 
nephew,  who  had  been,  for  some  days  past,  secreted  in  the 
house,  unknown  to  my  mother,  as  a  special  messenger  in  case 
of  emergency,  to  fetch  the  nurse  and  Doctor. 

Those  allied  powers  were  considerably  astonished  when 
they  arrived  within  a  few  minutes  of  each  other,  to  find  an 
unknown  lady  of  portentous  appearance,  sitting  before  the 
fire,  with  her  bonnet  tied  over  her  left  arm,  stopping  her  ears 
with  jewellers'  cotton.  Peggotty  knowing  nothing  about  her, 
and  my  mother  saying  nothing  about  her,  she  was  quite  a 
mystery  in  the  parlor;  and  the  fact  of  her  having  a  magazine 
of  jewellers'  cotton  in  her  pocket,  and  sticking  the  article  in 
her  ears  in  that  way,  did  not  detract  from  the  solemnity  of  her 
presence. 

The  Doctor  having  been  up  stairs  and  come  down  again, 
and  having  satisfied  himself,  I  suppose,  that  there  was  a  pro- 
bability of  this  unknown  lady  and  himself  having  to  sit  there, 
face  to  face,  for  some  hours,  laid  himself  out  to  be  polite  and 
social.  He  was  the  meekest  of  his  sex,  the  mildest  of  little 
men.  He  sidled  in  and  out  of  a  room,  to  take  up  the  less 
space.     He  walked  as  sgftly  as  the  Ghost  in    Hamlet — and 


i6  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

more  slowly.  He  carried  his  head  on  one  side,  partly  in 
modest  depreciation  of  himself,  partly  in  modest  propitiation 
of  every  body  else.  It  is  nothing  to  say  that  he  hadn't  a 
word  to  throw  at  a  dog.  He  couldn't  have  thrown  a  word 
at  a  mad  dog.  He  might  have  offered  him  one  gently,  or 
half  a  one,  or  a  fragment  of  one;  for  he  spoke  as  slowly  as  he 
walked;  but  he  wouldn't  have  been  rude  to  him,  and  he 
couldn't  have  been  quick  with  him,  for  any  earthly  consid- 
eration. 

Mr.  Chillip,  looking  mildly  at  my  aunt,  with  his  head  on 
one  side,  and  making  her  a  little  bow,  said,  in  allusion  to  the 
jewellers'  cotton,  as  he  softly  touched  his  left  ear  : 

"  Some  local  irritation,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  What  !  "  replied  my  aunt,  pulling  the  cotton  out  of  one 
ear  like  a  cork. 

Mr.  Chillip  was  so  alarmed  by  her  abruptness — as  he  told 
my  mother  afterwards — that  it  was  a  mercy  he  didn't  lose  his 
presence  of  mind.     But  he  repeated,  sweetly: 

"  Some  local  irritation,  ma'am?" 

"  Nonsense  !  "  replied  my  aunt,  and  corked  hersdf  again, 
at  one  blow. 

Mr.  Chillip  could  do  nothing  after  this,  but  sit  and  look  at 
her  feebly,  as  she  sat  and  looked  at  the  fire,  until  he  was 
called  up  stairs  again.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour's  ab- 
sence, he  returned. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  my  aunt,  taking  the  cotton  out  of  ner  ear 
nearest  to  him. 

"  Well  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  "  we  are — we  are 
progressing  slowly,  ma'am." 

"  Ba — a — ah  !  "  said  my  aunt,  with  a  perfect  shake  on  the 
contemptuous  interjection.     And  corked  herself  as  before. 

Really — really — as  Mr.  Chillip  told  my  mother,  he  was  al- 
most shocked  ;  speaking  in  a  professional  point  of  view  alone, 
he  was  almost  shocked.  But  he  sat  and  looked  at  her,  not- 
withstanding, for  nearly  two  hours,  as  she  sat  looking  at  the 
fire,  until  he  was  again  called  out.  After  another  absence, 
he  again  returned. 

"  Well  ?"  said  my  aunt,  taking  out  the  cotton  on  that  side, 
again. 

"  Well  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  "  we  are — we  are  pro- 
gressing slowly,  ma'am." 

*^  Ya — a — ah  !"  said  my  aunt.  With  such  a  snarl  at  him, 
that  Mr.  Chillip  absolutely  could  not  bear  it.     It  was  really 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  17 

calculated  to  break  his  spirit,  he  said  afterwards.  He  pre- 
ferred to  go  and  sit  upon  the  stairs,  in  the  dark  and  a  strong 
draught,  until  he  was  again  sent  for. 

Ham  Peggotty,  who  went  to  the  National  school,  and  was 
a  very  dragon  at  his  catechism,  and  who  may  therefore  be  re- 
garded as  a  credible  witness,  reported  next  day,  that  happen- 
ing to  peep  in  at  the  parlor-door  an  hour  after  this,  he  was 
instantly  descried  by  Betsey,  then  walking  to  and  fro  in  a 
state  of  agitation,  and  pounced  upon  before  he  could  make 
his  escape.  That  there  were  now  occasional  sounds  of  feet 
and  voices  overhead  which  he  inferred  the  cotton  did  not  ex- 
clude, from  the  circumstance  of  his  evidently  being  clutched 
by  the  lady  as  a  victim  on  whom  to  expend  her  superabun- 
dant agitation  when  the  sounds  were  loudest.  That,  marching 
him  constantly  up  and  down  by  the  collar  (as  if  he  had  been 
taking  too  much  laudanum),  she,  at  those  times,  shook  him, 
rumpled  his  hair,  made  light  of  his  linen,  stopped  his  ears  as 
if  she  confounded  them  with  her  own,  and  otherwise  touzled 
and  maltreated  him.  This  was  in  part  confirmed  by  his 
aunt,  who  saw  him  at  half  past  twelve  o'clock,  soon  after  his 
release,  and  affirmed  that  he  was  then  as  red  as  I  was. 

The  mild  Mr.  Chillip  could  not  possibly  bear  malice  at  such 
a  time,  if  at  any  time.  He  sidled  into  the  parlor  as  soon  as 
he  was  at  liberty,  and  said  to  my  aunt  in  his  meekest  manner: 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  am  happy  to  congratulate  you." 

*'  What  upon  ?"  said  my  aunt  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  was  fluttered  again,  by  the  extreme  severity  of 
my  aunt's  manner  ;  so  he  made  her  a  Httle  bow  and  gave  her 
a  little  smile,  to  mollify  her. 

"  Mercy  on  the  man,  what's  he  doing!"  cried  my  aunt  im- 
patiently.    "  Can't  he  speak?" 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  his  softest 
accents.  "  There  is  no  longer  any  occasion  for  uneasiness, 
ma,'am.     Be  calm." 

It  has  since  been  considered  almost  a  miracle  that  my 
aunt  didn't  shake  him,  and  shake  what  he  had  to  say  out  of 
him  by  main  force.  She  only  shook  her  head  at  him,  but  in 
a  way  that  made  him  quail. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  resumed  Mr.  Chillip,  as  soon  as  he  had 
courage,  "  I  am  happy  to  congratulate  you.  All  is  now  over 
ma'am,  and  well  over." 

During  the  five  minutes  or  so  that  Mr.  Chillip  devoted  to 
the  delivery  of  this  oration,  my  aunt  eyed  him  narrowly. 


iS  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  How  is  she?"  said  my  aunt,  folding  her  arms  with  her 
bonnet  still  tied  on  one  of  them. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  she  will  soon  be  quite  comfortable,  I  hope," 
returned  Mr.  Chillip.  **  Quite  as  comfortable  as  we  can  ex- 
pect a  young  mother  to  be  under  these  melancholy  domestic 
circumstances.  There  cannot  be  any  objection  to  your  see- 
ing her  presently,  ma'am.     It  may  do  her  good." 

"And  s/ie.     How  is  s/ie  ?"  said  my  aunt  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  laid  his  head  a  little  more  on  one  side,  and 
looked  at  my  aunt  like  an  amiable  bird. 

"  The  baby,"  said  my  aunt.     "  How  is  she?" 

"  Ma'am,"  returned  Mr,  Chillip,  "  I  apprehended  you  had 
known.     It's  a  boy." 

My  aunt  said  never  a  word,  but  took  her  bonnet  by  the 
strings,  in  the  manner  of  a  sling,  aimed  a  blow  at  Mr. 
Chillip's  head  with  it,  put  it  on  bent,  walked  out,  and  never 
came  back.  She  vanished  like  a  discontented  fairy,  or  like 
one  of  those  supernatural  beings,  whom  it  was  popularly  sup- 
posed I  was  entitled  to  see;  and  never  came  back  any  more. 

No.  I  lay  in  my  basket,  and  my  mother  lay  in  her  bed; 
but  Betsey  Trotwood  Copperfield  was  forever  in  the  land  of 
dreams  and  shadows,  the  tremendous  region  whence  I  had 
so  lately  travelled;  and  the  light  upon  the  window  of  our 
room,  shone  out  upon  the  earthly  bourne  of  all  such  travel- 
lers, and  the  mound  above  the  ashes  and  the  dust  that  once 
was  he,  without  whom  I  had  never  been. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I     OBSERVE. 

The  first  objects  that  assume  a  distinct  presence  before 
me,  as  I  look  far  back,  into  the  blank  of  my  infancy,  are  my 
mother  with  her  pretty  hair  and  youthful  shape,  and  Peggotty 
with  no  shape  at  all,  and  eyes  so  dark  that  they  seemed  to 
darken  their  whole  neighborhood  in  her  face,  and  cheeks  and 
arms  so  hard  and  red  that  I  wondered  the  birds  didn't  peck 
her  in  preference  to  apples. 

I  believe  I  can  remember  these  two  at  a  little  distance 
apart,  dwarfed  to  my  sight  by  stooping  down  or  kneeling  on 
the  floor,  and  I  going  unsteadily  from  one  to  the  other.  I 
have  an  impression  on  my  mind  which  I  cannot  distinp;ui3h 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  19 

from  actual  remembrance,  of  the  touch  of  Peggotty's  fore- 
finger as  she  used  to  hold  it  out  to  me,  and  of  its  being 
roughened  by  needlework,  like  a  pocket  nutmeg-grater. 

This  may  be  fancy,  though  I  think  the  memory  of  most  of 
us  can  go  farther  back  into  such  times  than  many  of  us  sup- 
pose. Just  as  I  believe  the  power  of  observation  in  numbers 
of  very  young  children  to  be  quite  wonderful  for  its  closeness 
and  accuracy.  Indeed,  I  think  that  most  grown  men  who 
are  remarkable  in  this  respect,  may  with  greater  propriety  be 
said  not  to  have  lost  the  faculty,  than  to  have  acquired  it; 
the  rather,  as  I  generally  observe  such  men  to  retain  a  cer- 
tain freshness,  and  gentleness,  and  capacity  of  being  pleased, 
which  are  also  an  inheritance  they  have  preserved  from  their 
childhood. 

I  might  have  a  misgiving  that  I  am  "  meandering  "  in 
stopping  to  say  this,  but  that  it  brings  me  to  remark  that  I 
build  these  conclusions  in  part  upon  my  own  experience  of 
myself;  and  if  it  should  appear  from  anything  I  may  set  down 
in  this  narrative  that  I  was  a  child  of  close  observation,  or 
that  as  a  man  I  have  a  strong  memory  of  my  childhood,  I 
undoubtedly  lay  claim  to  both  of  these  characteristics. 

Looking  back,  as  I  was  saying,  into  the  blank  of  my  in- 
fancy, the  first  objects  I  can  remember  as  standing  out  by 
themselves  from  a  confusion  of  things,  are  my  mother  and 
Peggotty.     What  else  do  I  remember?     Let  me  see. 

There  comes  out  of  the  cloud,  our  house — not  new  to  me, 
but  quite  familiar,  in  its  earliest  remembrance.  On  the 
ground-floor  Is  Peggotty's  kitchen,  opening  into  a  back  yard; 
with  a  pigeon -house  on  a  pole,  in  the  centre,  without  any 
pigeons  in  it;  a  great  dog-kenneL  in  a  corner,  without  any 
dog;  and  a  quantity  of  fowls  that  look  terribly  tall  to  me, 
walking  about  in  a  menacing  and  ferocious  manner.  There 
is  one  cock  who  gets  upon  a  post  to  crow,  and  seems  to  take 
particular  notice  of  me  as  I  look  at  him  through  the  kitchen 
window,  who  makes  me  shiver,  he  is  so  fierce.  Of  the  geese 
outside  the  side-gate  who  come  waddling  after  me  with  their 
long  necks  stretched  out  when  I  go  that  way,  I  dream  at  night 
as  a  man  environed  by  wild  beasts  might  dream  of  lions. 

Here  is  a  long  passage — what  an  enormous  prospective  I 
make  of  it! — leading  from  Peggotty's  kitchen  to  the  front 
door.  A  dark  store-room  opens  out  of  it,  and  that  is  a  place  to 
be  run  past  at  night;  for  I  don't  know  what  may  be  among 
those  tubs  and  jars  and  old  tea  chests,  when  there  is  nobody  in 


2(5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

there  with  a  dimly  burning  light,  letting  a  mouldy  air  come 
out  at  the  door,  in  which  there  is  a  smell  of  soap,  pickles, 
pepper,  candles,  and  coffee,  all  at  one  whiff.  Then  there  are 
the  two  parlors;  the  parlor  in  which  we  sit  of  an  evening,  my 
mother  and  I  and  Peggotty — for  Peggotty  is  quite  our  com- 
panion, when  her  work  is  done  and  we  are  alone — and  the 
best  parlor  where  we  sit  on  a  Sunday;  grandly,  but  not  so 
comfortably.  There  is  something  of  a  doleful  air  about  that 
room  to  me,  for  Peggotty  has  told  me — I  don't  know  when, 
but  apparently  ages  ago — about  my  father's  funeral,  and  the 
company  having  their  black  cloaks  put  on.  One  Sunday 
night  my  mother  reads  to  Peggotty  and  me  in  there,  how 
Lazarus  was  raised  up  from  the  dead.  And  I  am  so  fright- 
ened, that  they  are  afterwards  obliged  to  take  me  out  of  bed 
and  show  me  the  quiet  churchyard  out  of  the  bedroom  win- 
dow, and  the  dead  all  lying  in  their  graves  at  rest,  below  the 
solemn  moon. 

There  is  nothing  half  so  green  that  I  know  any  where,  as 
the  grass  of  that  churchyard;  nothing  half  so  shady  as  its 
trees;  nothing  half  so  quiet  as  its  tombstones.  The  sheep 
are  feeding  there,  when  I  kneel  up,  early  in  the  morning,  in 
my  little  bed  in  a  closet  within  my  mother's  room,  to  look 
out  at  it;  and  I  see  the  red-light  shining  on  the  sun-dial, 
and  think  within  myself,  "  Is  the  sun-dial  glad,  I  wonder, 
that  it  can  tell  me  the  time  again?" 

Here  is  our  pew  in  the  church.  What  a  high-backed  pew! 
With  a  window  near  it,  out  of  which  our  house  can  be  seen 
— and  is  seen  many  times  during  the  morning's  service  by 
Peggotty,  who  likes  to  make  herself  as  sure  as  she  can  that 
its  not  being  robbed,  or  is  not  in  flames.  But  though  Peg- 
gotty's  eye  wanders,  she  is  much  offended  if  mine  does,  and 
frowns  to  me,  as  I  stand  upon  the  seat,  that  I  am  to  look  at 
the  clergyman.  But  I  can't  always  look  at  him — I  know  him 
without  that  white  thing  on,  and  I  am  afraid  of  his  wonder- 
ing why  I  stare  so,  and  perhaps  stopping  the  service  to  in- 
quire— and  what  am  I  to  do?  It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  gape, 
but  I  must  do  something.  I  look  at  my  mother,  but  she  pre- 
tends not  to  see  me.  I  look  at  a  boy  in  the  aisle,  and  he 
makes  faces  at  me.  I  look  at  the  sunlight  coming  in  at  the 
open  door  through  the  porch,  and  there  I  see  a  stray  sheep 
— I  don't  mean  a  sinner,  but  mutton — half  making  up  his 
mind  to  come  into  the  church.  I  feel  that  if  I  looked  at  him 
any  longer  I  might  be  tempted  to  say  something  out  loud; 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  21 

and  what  would  become  of  me  then!  I  look  up  at  the  mon- 
umental tablets  on  the  wall,  and  try  to  think  of  Mr.  Bodgers 
late  of  this  parish,  and  what  the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Bodgers 
must  have  been,  when  affliction  sore,  long  time,  Mr.  Bodgers 
bore,  and  physicians  were  in  vain.  I  wonder  whether  they 
called  in  Mr.  Chillip,  and  he  was  in  vain,  and  if  so,  how  he 
likes  to  be  reminded  of  it  once  a  week.  I  look  from  Mr. 
Chillip,  in  his  Sunday  neckcloth,  to  the  pulpit,  and  think 
what  a  good  place  it  would  be  to  play  in,  and  what  a  castle 
it  would  make,  with  another  boy  coming  up  the  stairs  to  at- 
tack it,  and  having  the  velvet  cushion  with  the  tassels  thrown 
down  on  his  head.  In  time  my  eyes  gradually  shut  up,  and 
from  seeming  to  hear  the  clergyman  singing  a  drowsy  song  in 
the  heat,  I  hear  nothing  until  I  fall  off  the  seat  with  a  crash, 
and  am  taken  out,  more  dead  than  alive,  by  Peggotty. 

And  now  I  see  the  outside  of  our  house,  with  the  latticed 
bed-room  windows  standing  open  to  let  in  the  sweet-smelling 
air,  find  the  ragged  old  rooks'  nests  still  dangling  in  the  elm- 
tree  at  the  bottom  of  the  front  garden.  Now  I  am  in  the 
garden  at  the  back,  beyond  the  yard  where  the  empty  pigeon- 
house  and  dog-kennel  are — a  very  preserve  of  butterflies,  as 
I  remember  it,  with  a  high  fence,  and  a  gate  and  padlock; 
where  the  fruit  clusters  on  the  trees,  riper  and  richer  than 
fruit  has  ever  been  since,  in  any  other  garden,  and  where  my 
mother  gathers  some  in  a  basket,  while  I  stand  by,  bolting 
furtive  gooseberries,  and  trying  to  look  unmoved.  A  great 
wind  rises,  and  the  summer  is  gone  in  a  moment.  We  are 
playing  in  the  winter  twilight,  dancing  about  the  parlor. 
When  my  mother  is  out  of  breath  and  rests  herself  in  an  el- 
bow chair,  I  watch  her  winding  her  bright  curls  round  her 
fingers,  and  straightening  her  waist,  and  nobody  knows  better 
than  I  do  that  she  likes  to  look  so  well  and  is  proud  of  being 
so  pretty. 

This  is  among  my  very  earliest  impressions.  That,  and  a 
sense  that  we  were  both  a  little  afraid  of  Peggotty,  and  sub- 
mitted ourselves  in  most  things  to  her  direction,  were  among 
the  first  opinions — if  they  may  be  so  called — that  I  ever  de- 
rived from  what  I  saw. 

Peggotty  and  I  were  sitting  one  night  by  the  parlor  fire, 
alone.  I  had  been  reading  to  Peggotty  about  crocodiles.  I 
must  have  read  very  perspicuously,  or  the  poor  soul  must 
have  been  deeply  interested,  for  I  remember  she  had  a 
cloudy  impression  after  I  had  done,  that  they  were,  a  sort  of 


22  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

vegetable.  I  was  tired  of  reading,  and  dead  sleepy;  but  hav- 
ing leave,  as  a  high  treat,  to  sit  up  till  my  mother  came  home 
from  spending  an  evening  at  a  neighbor's,  I  would  rather 
have  died,upon  my  post  (of  course)  than  gone  to  bed.  I  had 
reached  that  stage  of  sleepiness  when  Peggotty  seemed  to 
swell  and  grow  immensely  large.  I  propped  my  eyelids 
^  open  with  my  two  forefingers,  and  looked  perseveringly  at 
her  as  she  sat  at  work;  at  the  little  bit  "of  wax  candle  she  had 
got  for  her  thread — how  old  it  looked,  being  so  wrinkled  in 
all  directions! — at  the  little  house  with  a  thatched  roof  where 
the  yard  measure  lived;  at  her  work-box  with  a  sliding  lid 
with  a  view  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  (with  a  pink  dome) 
painted  on  the  top;  at  the  brass  thimble  on  her  finger;  at 
herself,  whom  I  thought  lovely.  I  felt  so  sleepy  that  I  knew 
if  I  lost  sight  of  anything,  for  a  moment,  I  was  gone. 

*'  Peggotty,"  says  I  suddenly,    *'  were  you  ever  married  ?" 

"  Lord,  Master  Davy,"   replied   Peggotty.     "  What's  put 
marriage  in  your  head  !" 

.  She  answered  with  such  a  start,  that  it  quite  awoke  me. 
And  then  she  stopped  in  her  work,  and  looked  at  me,  with 
her  needle  drawn  out  to  its  thread's  length. 

"  But  were  you  ever  married,   Peggotty  ?"  says  I.     "  You 
are  a  very  handsome  woman,  an't  you  ?" 

I  thought  her  in  a  different  style  from  my  mother,  cer- 
tainly; but  of  another  school  of  beauty,  I  considered  her  a 
perfect  example.  There  was  a  red  velvet  footstool  in  the 
f  best  parlor  on  which  my  mother  had  painted  a  nosegay. 
The  groundwork  of  that  stool,  and  Peggotty's  complexion, 
appeared  to  me  to  be  one  and  the  same  thing.  The  stool 
was  smooth,  and  Peggotty  was  rough,  but  that  made  no  dir- 
ference. 

"  Me  handsome,  Davy  !"  said  Peggotty.     "  Lawk,  no  my 
dear  !     But  what  put  marriage  in  your  head  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ! — You  mustn't  marry  more  than  one  per- 
son at  a  time,  may  you,  Peggotty  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  says  Peggotty,  with  the  promptest  decision. 

**  But  if  you  marry  a  person,  and  the  person  dies,  why 
then  you  may  marry  another  person,  mayn't  you,  Peggotty  ?" 

*'  You  MAY,"  says    Peggotty — "  if   you  choose,  my  dear. 
That's  a  matter  of  opinion." 

*'  But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty  ?"  said  I. 

I  asked  her,    and   looked  curiously  at  her,  because  she 
looked  so  curiously  at  me. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  23 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  Peggotty,  taking  her  eyes  from  me, 
after  a  little  indecision,  and  going  on  with  her  work,  *'  that  I 
never  was  married  myself,  Master  Davy,  and  that  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  be.     That's  all  I  know  about  the  subject." 

"  You  an't  cross,  I  suppose,  Peggotty,  are  you  ?"  said  I, 
after  sitting  quiet  for  a  minute. 

I  really  thought  she  was,  she  had  been  so  short  with  me; 
but  I  was  quite  mistaken;  for  she  laid  aside  her  work  (which 
was  a  stocking  of  her  own)  and  opening  her  arms  wide,  took 
my  curly  head  within  them,  and  gave  it  a  good  squeeze.  I 
know  it  was  a  good  squeeze,  because,  being  very  plump, 
whenever  she  made  any  little  exertion  after  she  was  dressed, 
some  of  the  buttons  on  the  back  of  her  gown,  flew  off.  And 
I  recollect  two  bursting  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  parlor, 
while  she  was  hugging  me. 

''  Now  let  me  hear  some  more  about  the  Crorkindills," 
said  Peggotty,  who  was  not  quite  right  in  the  name  yet,  "  for 
I  an't  heard  half  enough." 

I  couldn't  quite  understand  why  Peggotty  looked  so  queer, 
or  why  she  was  so  ready  to  go  back  to  the  crocodiles.  How- 
ever, we  returned  to  those  monsters,  with  fresh  wakefulness 
on  my  part,  and  we  left  their  eggs  in  the  sand  for  the  sun  to 
hatch;  and  we  ran  away  from  them  and  baffled  them  by  con- 
stantly turning,  which  they  were  unable  to  do  quickly,  on 
account  of  their  unwieldly  make;  and  we  went  into  the  water 
after  them,  as  natives,  and  put  sharp  pieces  of  timber  down 
their  throats;  and  in  short  we  ran  the  whole  crocodile  gaunt-  " 
let.  /did  at  least;  but  I  had  my  doubts  of  Peggotty,  who 
was  thoughtfully  sticking  her  needle  into  various  parts  of  her 
face  and  arms,  all  the  time. 

We  had  exhausted  the  crocodiles,  and  begun  with  the 
alhgators  when  the  garden  bell  rang.  We  went  out  to  the 
door,  and  there  was  my  mother,  looking  unusually  pretty,  I 
thought,  and  with  her  a  gentleman  with  beautiful  black  haiif 
and  whiskers,  who  had  walked  home  with  us  from  church 
last  Sunday. 

As  my  mother  stooped  down  on  the  threshold  to  take  me 
in  her  arms  and  kiss  me,  the  gentleman  said  I  was  a  more 
highly  privileged  little  fellow  than  a  monarch — or  something 
like  that;  for  my  later  understanding  comes,  I  am  sensible, 
to  my  aid  here. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  I  asked  him  over  her  shoulder. 

He  patted  me  on  the  head  ;  but  somehow,  I  didn't  like  him 


24  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

or  his  deep  voice,  and  I  was  jealous  that  his  hand  should 
touch  my  mother's  in  touching  me — which  it  did.  I  put  it 
away,  as  well  as  I  could. 

"Oh  Davy  !"  remonstrated  my  mother. 

"  Dear  boy  !"  said  the  gentleman.  *'  1  cannot  wonder  at 
his  devotion  !" 

I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful  color  on  my  mother's  face  be- 
fore. She  gently  chid  me  for  being  rude,  and  keeping  me 
close  to  her  shawl,  turned  to  thank  the  gentleman  for  taking 
so  much  trouble  as  to  bring  her  home.  She  put  out  her  hand 
to  him,  as  she  spoke,  and,  as  he  met  it  with  his  own  she 
glanced,  I  thought,  at  me. 

"  Let  us  say  'good  night,'  my  fine  boy,"  said  the  gentleman, 
when  he  had  bent  his  head — /  saw  him  [—-over  my  mother's 
little  glove. 

"  Good  night  !"  said  I. 

"  Come  !  Let  us  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world  !"  said 
the  gentleman,  laughing.     "  Shake  hands." 

My  right  hand  was  in  my  mother's  left,  so  I  gave  him  the 
other. 

"  Why,  that's  the  wrong  hand,  Davy  !"  laughed  the  gentle- 
man. 

My  mother  drew  my  right  hand  forward,  but  I  was  re- 
solved, for  my  former  reason,  not  to  give  it  him,  and  I  did 
not.  I  gave  irim  the  other,  and  he  shook  it  heartily,  and  said 
I  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  went  away. 

At  this  minute  I  saw  him  turn  round  in  the  garden,  and 
give  us  a  last  look  with  his  ill-omened  black  eyes,  before  the 
door  was  shut. 

Peggotty,  who  had  not  said  a  word  or  moved  a  finger,  se- 
cured the  fastenings  instantly,  and  we  all  went  into  the  par- 
lor. My  mother,  contrary  to  her  usual  habit,  instead  of  com- 
ing to  the  elbow  chair  by  the  fire,  remained  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  sat  singing  to  herself. 

*' — Hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  evening,  ma'am,"  said 
Peggotty,  standing  as  stiff  as  a  barrel  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  with  a  candlestick  in  her  hand- 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Peggotty,"  returned  my  mother,  in 
a  cheerful  voice,  "  I  have  had  a  very  pleasant  evening." 

"A  stranger  or  so  makes  an  agreeable  change,"  suggested 
Peggotty. 

*  A  very  agreeable  change  indeed,"  returned  ray  mother. 

Peggotty  continuing  to  stand  motionless  in  the  middle  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  25 

the  room,  and  my  mother  resuming  her  singing,  1  fell  asleep, 
though  I  was  not  so  sound  asleep  but  that  I  could  hear  voices, 
without  hearing  what  they  said.  When  I  half  awoke  from 
this  uncomfortable  doze,  I  found  Peggotty  and  my  mother 
both  in  tears,  and  both  talking. 

"  Not  such  a  one  as  this  Mr.  Copperfield  wouldn't  have 
liked,"  said  Peggotty.     "That  I  say,  and  that  I  swear  !" 

"  Good  heavens  !"  cried  my  mother.  "  You'll  drive  me 
mad  !  Was  ever  any  poor  girl  so  ill-used  by  her  servants  as 
I  am  !  Why  do  I  do  myself  the  injustice  of  calling  myself  a 
girl  ?     Have  I  never  been  married,  Peggotty  ?" 

"  God  knows  you  have,  ma'am,"  returned  Peggotty. 

"  Then  how  can  you  dare,"  said  my  mother — '*  you  know 
I  don't  mean  how  can  you  dare,  Peggotty,  but  how  can  you 
have  the  heart— to  make  me  so  uncomfortable,  and  say  such 
bitter  things  to  me,  when  you  are  well  aware  that  I  haven't, 
out  of  this  place,  a  single  friend  to  turn  to  !" 

"  The  more's  the  reason,"  returned  Peggotty,  "  for  saying 
that  it  won't  do.  No  !  That  it  won't  do.  No  !  No  price 
could  make  it  do.  No  !" — I  thought  Peggotty  would  have 
thrown  the  candlestick  away,  she  was  so  emphatic  with  it. 

*'  How  can  you  be  so  aggravating  !"  said  my  mother,  shed- 
ding more  tears  than  before,  "  as  to  talk  in  such  an  unjust 
manner.  How  can  you  go  on  as  if  it  was  all  settled  and  ar- 
ranged, Peggotty,  when  I  tell  you  over  and  over  again,  you 
cruel  thing,  that  beyond  the  commonest  civilities  nothing  has 
passed  !  You  talk  of  admiration.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  If 
people  are  so  silly  as  to  indulge  the  sentiment,  is  it  my  fault  ? 
What  am  I  to  do,  I  ask  you  ?  Would  you  wish  me  to  shave 
my  head  and  black  my  face,  or  disfigure  myself  with  a  burn, 
or  a  scald,  or  something  of  that  sort  ?  I  dare  say  you  would, 
Peggotty.     I  dare  say  you'd  quite  enjoy  it." 

Peggotty  seemed  to  take  this  aspersion  very  much  at  heart, , 
I  thought. 

"  And  my  dear  boy,"  cried  my  mother,  coming  to  the 
elbow  chair  in  which  I  was,  and  caressing  me,  "  my  own 
little  Davy!  Is  it  to  be  hinted  to  me  that  I  am  wanting  in 
affection  for  my  precious  treasure,  the  dearest  little  fellow 
that  ever  was!" 

"  Nobody  never  went  and  hinted  no  such  thing,"  said  Peg- 
gotty. 

"You  did,  Peggotty!"  returned  my  mother.  "You  know 
you  did.     What  else  was  it  possible  to  infer  from  what  you 


26  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

said,  you  unkind  creature,  when  you  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
that  on  his  account  only  last  quarter  I  wouldn't  buy  myself 
a  new  parasol,  though  that  old  green  one  is  frayed  the  whole 
way  up,  and  the  fringe  is  perfectly  man  gey.  You  know  it  is, 
Peggotty.  You  can't  deny  it."  Then  turning  affectionately 
to  me  with  her  cheek  against  mine;  "  Am  I  a  naughty 
mamma  to  you,  Davy?  Am  I  nasty,  cruel,  selfish,  bad 
mamma?  Say  I  am,  my  child;  say,'  yes,'  dear  boy,  and  Peg- 
gotty will  love  you,  and  Peggotty's  love  is  a  great  deal 
better  than  mine,  Davy.     /  don't  love  you  at  all  do  I?" 

At  this,  we  all  fell  a  crying  together.  I  think  I  was  the 
loudest  of  the  party,  but  I  am  sure  we  were  all  sincere  about 
it.  I  was  quite  heart-broken  myself,  and  am  afraid  that  in 
the  first  transports  of  wounded  tenderness  I  called  Peggotty 
a  "beast."  That  honest  creature  was  in  deep  affliction  I- 
remember,  and  must  have  become  quite  buttonless  on  the 
occasion;  for  a  little  volley  of  those  explosives  went  off, 
when,  after  having  made  it  up  with  my  mother,  she  kneeled 
down  by  the  elbow  chair,  and  made  it  up  with  me. 

We  went  to  bed  greatly  dejected.  My  sobs  kept  waking 
me  for  a  long  time,  and  when  one  very  strong  sob  quite 
hoisted  me  up  in  bed,  I  found  my  mother  sitting  on  the 
coverlet,  and  leaning  over  me.  I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms, 
after  that,  and  slept  soundly. 

Whether  it  was  the  following  Sunday  when  I  saw  the  gen- 
tleman again,  or  whether  there  was  any  greater  lapse  of  time 
before  he  reappeared,  I  cannot  recall.  I  don't  profess  to  be  - 
clear  about  dates.  But  there  he  was,  in  church,  and  he 
walked  home  with  us  afterwards.  He  came  in,  too,  to  look 
at  a  famous  geranium  we  had  in  the  parlor  window.  It  did 
not  appear  to  me  that  he  took  much  notice  of  it,  but  before 
he  went  he  asked  my  mother  to  give  him  a  bit  of  the  blossom. 
She  begged  him  to  choose  it  for  himself,  but  he  refused  to 
do  that — I  could  not  understand  why — so  she  plucked  it  for 
him  and  gave  it  into  his  hand.  He  said  he  should  never, 
never  part  with  it  any  more,  and  I  thought  he  must  be  quite 
a  fool  not  to  know  that  it  would  fall  to  pieces  in  a  day  or  two. 

Peggotty  began  to  be  less  with  us  of  an  evening,  than  she 
had  always  been.  My  mother  deferred  to  her  very  much — 
more  than  usual,  it  occurred  to  me — and  we  were  all  three 
excellent  friends,  still  we  were  different  from  what  we  used 
to  be,  and  were  not  so  comfortable  among  ourselves.     Some- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  27 

times  I  fancied  that  Peggotty  perhaps  objected  to  my 
mother's  wearing  all  the  pretty  dresses  she  had  in  her 
drawers,  or  to  her  going  so  often  to  that  neighbor's  of  an 
evening;  but  I  couldn't  to  my  satisfaction,  make  out  how  it 
was. 

Gradually  I  became  used  to  seeing  the  gentleman  with 
the  black  whiskers.  I  liked  him  no  better  than  at  first,  and 
had  the  same  uneasy  jealousy  of  him;  but  if  I  had  any  reason 
for  it  beyond  a  child's  instinctive  dislike,  and  a  general  idea 
that  Peggotty  and  I  could  make  much  of  my  mother  without 
any  help,  it  certainly  was  not  the  reason  that  I  might  have 
found  if  I  had  been  older.  No  such  thing  came  into  my 
mind  or  near  it.  I  could  observe,  in  little  pieces,  as  it  were; 
but  as  to  making  a  net  of  a  number  of  these  pieces,  and 
catching  any  body  in  it,  that  was  as  yet,  beyond  me. 

One  autumn  morning  I  was  with  my  mother  in  the  front 
garden,  when  Mr.  Murdstone — I  knew  him  by  that  name 
now — came  by,  on  horseback.  He  reined  up  his  horse  to 
salute  my  mother,  and  said  he  was  going  to  Lowestoft  to  see 
some  friends  who  were  there  with  a  yacht,  and  merrily  pro- 
posed to  take  me  on  the  saddle  before  him  if  I  would  like 
the  ride. 

The  air  was  so  clear  and  pleasant,  and  the  horse  seemed  to 
like  the  idea  of  the  ride  so  much  himself,  as  he  stood  snorting 
and  pawing  at  the  garden  gate,  that  I  had  a  great  desire  to  go. 
So  I  was  sent  up  stairs  to  Peggotty  to  be  made  spruce,  and 
in  the  meantime  Mr.  Murdstone  dismounted,  and,  with  his 
horse's  bridle  drawn  over  his  arm,  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  on  the  outer  side  of  the  sweetbrier  fence,  while  my 
mother  walked  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  inner  to  keep  him 
company.  I  recollect  Peggotty  and  I  peeping  out  at  them 
from  my  little  window;  I  recollect  how  closely  they  appeared 
to  be  examining  the  sweetbrier  between  them,  as  they 
strolled  along;  and  how,  from  being  in  a  perfectly  angelic  " 
temper,  Peggotty  turned  cross  in  a  moment,  and  brushed  my 
hair  the  wrong  way,  excessively  hard. 

Mr.  Murdstone  and  I  were  soon  off,  and  trotting  alcJng  on 
the  green  turf  by  the  side  of  the  it)ad.  He  held  me  quite 
easily  with  one  arm,  and  I  don't  think  I  was  restless  usually; 
but  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  sit  in  front  of  him  with- 
out turning  my  head  sometimes,  and  looking  up  in  his  face. 
He  had  that  kind  of  shallow  black  eye — I  want  a  better  word 
to  express  «ln  eye  that  has  no  depth  in  it  to  be  looked  into — 


28  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

which,  when  it  is  abstracted,  seems,  from  some  peculiarity  of 
light,  to  be  disfigured,  for  a  moment  at  a  time,  by  a  cast. 
Several  times  when  I  glanced  at  him,  I  observed  that  ap- 
pearance with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  wondered  what  he  was 
thinking  about  so  closely.  His  hair  and  whiskers  were 
blacker  and  thicker,  looked  at  so  near,  than  even  I  had  given 
them  credit  for  being.  A  squareness  about  the  lower  part 
of  his  face,  and  the  dotted  indication  of  the  strong  black 
beard  he  shaved  close  every  day,  reminded  me  of  the  wax- 
work that  had  travelled  into  our  neighborhood  some  half 
a  year  before.  This,  his  regular  eyebrows,  and  the  rich 
white,  and  black,  and  brown  of  his  complexion — confound 
his  complexion,  and  his  memory! — made  me  think  him,  in 
spite  of  my  misgivings,  a  very  handsome  man.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  my  poor  dear  mother  thought  him  so  too. 

We  went  to  a  hotel  by  the  sea,  where  two  gentlemen  were 
smoking  cigars  in  a  room  by  themselves.  Each  of  them  was 
lying  on  at  least  four  chairs,  and  had  a  large  rough  jacket  on. 
In  a  corner  was  a  heap  of  coats  and  boat  cloaks,  and  a  flag, 
all  bundled  up  together. 

They  both  rolled  on  to  their  feet  in  an  untidy  sort  of  man- 
ner when  we  came  in,  and  said  "Halloa,  Murdstone!  We 
thought  you  were  dead!" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

*'  And  who's  this  shaver?"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen, 
taking  hold  of  me. 

"  That's  Davy,"  returned  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"  Davy  who?"  said  the  gentleman,  *'  Jones?" 

*'  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"What!  Bewitching  Mrs.  Copperfield's  encumbrance?" 
cried  the  gentleman.     "  The  pretty  little  widow?" 

"  Quinion,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  "  take  care  if  you  please. 
Somebody's  sharp." 

"  Who  is?"  asked  the  gentleman,  laughing. 

I  looked  up,  quickly;  being  curious  to  know. 

"  Only  Brooks  of  Sheffield,"   said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

I  was  quite  relieved  to  find  it  was  only  Brooks  of  Sheffield, 
for,  at  first,  I  really  thought  it  was  I. 

There  seemed  to  be  something  very  comical  in  the  reputa- 
tion of  Mr.  Brooks  of  Sheffield,  for  both  the  gentlemen 
laughed  heartily  when  he  was  mentioned,  and  Mr.  Murdstone 
was  a  good  deal  amused  also.  After  some  laughing,  the  gen- 
tleman whom  he  had  called  Quinion.  said: 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  29 

"  And  what  is  the  opinion  of  Brooks  of  Sheffield,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  projected  business?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  that  Brooks  understands  much  about 
it  at  present,"  replied  Mr.  Murdstone;  "but  he  is  not  gen- 
erally favorable,  I  believe." 

There  was  more  laughter  at  this,  and  Mr,  Quinion  said,  he 
would  ring  the  bell  for  some  sherry  in  which  to  drink  to 
Brooks.  This  he  did,  and  when  the  wine  came,  he  made  me 
have  a  little  with  a  biscuit,  and  before  I  drank  it,  stand  up 
and  say  "  Confusion  to  Brooks  of  Sheffield!"  The  toast  was 
received  with  great  applause,  and  such  hearty  laughter  that 
it  made  me  laugh  too;  at  which  they  laughed  the  more,  in 
short,  we  quite  enjoyed  ourselves. 

We  walked  about  on  the  cliff  after  that,  and  sat  on  the 
grass,  and  looked  at  things  through  a  telescope — I  could 
make  out  nothing  myself  when  it  was  put  to  my  eye,  but  I 
pretended  I  could — and  then  we  came  back  to  the  hotel  to 
an  early  dinner.  All  the  time  we  were  out  the  two  gentle- 
men smoked  incessantly — which,  I  thought,  if  I  might  judge 
from  the  smell  of  their  rough  coats,  they  must  have  been  do- 
ing ever  since  the  coats  had  first  come  home  from  the  tailors. 
I  must  not  forget,  that  we  went  on  board  the  yacht,  where 
they  all  three  descended  into  the  cabin,  and  were  busy  with 
some  papers — I  saw  them  quite  hard  at  work,  when  I  looked 
down  through  the  open  skylight.  They  left  me,  during  this 
time,  with  a  very  nice  man  with  a  very  large  head  of  red  hair 
and  a  very  small  shiny  hat  upon  it,  who  had  got  a  cross- 
barred  shirt  or  waistcoat  on,  with  "  Skylark"  in  capital  let- 
ters, across  the  chest.  I  thought  it  was  his  name,  and  that, 
as  he  lived  on  board  ship  and  hadn't  a  street  door  to  put  his 
name  on,  he  put  it  there  instead;  but  when  I  called  him  Mr. 
Skylark,  he  said  it  meant  the  vessel. 

I  observed  all  day  that  Mr.  Murdstone  was  graver  and 
steadier  than  the  two  gentlemen.  They  were  very  gay  and 
careless.  They  joked  freely  with  one  another,  but  seldom 
with  him.  It  appeared  to  me  that  he  was  more  clever  and 
cold  than  they  were,  and  that  they  regarded  him  with  some- 
thing of  my  own  feeling.  I  remarked  that  once  or  twice 
when  Mr.  Quinion  was  talking,  he  looked  at  Mr.  Murdstone 
sideways,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his  not  being  displeased;  and 
that  once  when  Mr.  Jegg  (the  other  gentleman)  was  in  high 
spirits,  he  trod  upon  his  foot,  and  gave  him  a  secret  caution 
with  his  eyes  tg  observe  Mr.    Murdstone,  who  was  sitting 


30  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

stern  and  silent.  Nor  do  I  recollect  that  Mr.  Murdstone 
laughed  at  all  that  day,  except  at  the  Sheffield  joke — and 
that,  by  the  by,  was  his  own. 

We  went  home,  early  in  the  evening.  It  was  a  very  fine 
evening,  and  my  mother  and  he  had  another  stroll  by  the 
sweet-brier  while  I  was  sent  in  to  get  my  tea.  When  he  was 
gone,  my  mother  asked  me  all  about  the  day  I  had  had,  and 
what  they  had  said  and  done.  I  mentioned  what  they  had 
said  about  her,  and  she  laughed,  and  told  me  they  were  im- 
pudent fellows  who  talked  nonsense — but  I  knew  it  pleased 
her.  I  knew  it  quite  as  well  as  I  know  it  now.  I  took  the 
opportunity  of  asking  if  she  was  at  all  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Brooks  of  Sheffield,  but  she  answered  no,  only  she  supposed 
he  must  be  a  manufacturer  in  the  knife  and  fork  way. 

Can  I  say  of  her  face — altered  as  I  have  reason  to  remem- 
ber it,  perished  as  I  know  it  is — that  it  is  gone,  when  here  it 
comes  before  me  at  this  instant  as  distinct  as  any  face  that  I 
may  choose  to  look  on  in  a  crowded  street  ?  Can  I  say  of 
her  innocent  and  girlish  beauty,  that  it  faded,  and  was  no 
more,  when  its  breath  falls  on  my  cheek  now,  as  it  fell  that 
night  ?  Can  I  say  she  ever  changed,  when  my  remembrance 
brings  her  back  to  life,  thus  only,  and  truer  to  its  loving 
youth  than  I  have  been,  or  man  ever  is,  still  holds  fast  what 
it  cherished  then  ? 

I  write  of  her  just  as  she  was  when  I  had  gone  to  bed  af- 
ter this  talk,  and  she  came  to  bid  me  good  night.  She 
kneeled  down  playfully  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  laying 
her  chin  upon  her  hands,  and  laughing,  said: 

"  What  was  it  they  said,  Davy  ?  Tell  me  again.  I  can't 
believe  it." 

"  '  Bewitching '  "  I  began. 

My  mother  put  her  hands  upon  my  lips  to  stop  me. 

"  It  was  never  bewitching,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  It  never 
could  have  been  bewitching,  Davy.     Now  I  know  it  wasn't  !" 

"  Yes  it  was.  *  Bewitching  Mrs.  Copperfield,'  "  I  repeatec^ 
stoutly.     "  And  '  pretty.'  " 

"  No,  no,  it  was  never  pretty.  Not  pretty,"  interposed  mj 
mother,  laying  her  fingers  on  my  lips  again. 

"  Yes  it  was.     '  Pretty  little  widow.*  " 

"  What  foolish,  impudent  creatures  !"  cried  my  mother, 
laughing  and  covering  her  face.  "  What  ridiculous  men  ! 
An't  they  ?     Davy  dear " 

"Well.  Ma." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  31 

**  Don't  tell  Peggotty;  she  might  be  angry  with  them.  I 
am  dreadfully  angry  with  them  myself;  but  1  would  rather 
Peggotty  didn't  know." 

I  promised,  of  course,  and  we  kissed  one  another  over  and 
over  again,  and  I  soon  fell  fast  asleep. 
^  It  seems  to  me,  at  this  distance  of  time,  as  it  were  the  next 
day  when  Peggotty  broached  the  striking  and  adventurous 
proposition  I  am  about  to  mention;  but  it  was  probably 
about  two  months  afterwards. 

We  were  sitting  as  before,  one  evening  (when  my  mother 
was  out  as  before),  in  company  with  the  stocking  and  the 
yard  measure,  and  a  bit  of  wax,  and  the  box  with  Saint 
Paul's  on  the  lid,  and  the  crocodile  book,  when  Peggotty 
after  looking  at  me  several  times,  and  opening  her  mouth  as 
if  she  were  going  to  speak,  without  doing  it — which  I  thought 
was  merely  gaping,  or  I  should  have  been  rather  alarmed — 
said  coaxingly: 

**  Master  Davy,  how  should  you  like  to  go  along  with  me 
and  spend  a  fortnight  at  my  brother's  at  Yarmouth.?  Wouldn't 
that  be  a  treat  ?" 

"  Is  your  brother  an  agreeable  man,  Peggotty  ?"  I  inquired, 
provisionally. 

"  Oh  what  an  agreeable  man  he  is  !"  cried  Peggotty,  hold- 
ing up  her  hands.  "Then  there's  the  sea;  and  the  boats 
and  ships;  and  the  fishermen;  and  the  beach;  and  Am  to 
play  with — " 

Peggotty  meant  her  nephew  Ham,  mentioned  in  my  first 
chapter;  but  she  spoke  of  him  as  a  morsel  of  English  Gram- 
mar— first  person  singular,  present  tense  Indicative,  verb 
neuter  To  be. 

I  was  flushed  by  her  summary  of  delights,  and  replied  that 
it  would  indeed  be  a  treat,  but  what  would  my  mother  say.?" 

"  Why  then  I'll  as  good  as  bet  a  guinea,"  said  Peggotty, 
intent  upon  my  face,  "  that  she'll  let  us  go.  I'll  ask  her,  if 
you  like,  as  soon  as  ever  she  comes  home.     There  now  !" 

"  But  what's  she  to  do  while  we're  away  ?"  said  I  putting 
my  small  elbows  on  the  table  to  argue  the  point.  "  She  can't 
live  by  herself." 

If  Peggotty  were  looking  for  a  hole,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the 
heel  of  that  stocking,  it  must  have  been  a  very  little  one 
indeed,  and  not  worth  darning. 

*'  I  say  !  Peggotty:     She  can't  live  by  herself,  you  know." 

"  Oh  bless  you  !"   said  Peggotty,    looking  at  me   again  at 


32  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

last.  **  Don't  you  know?  She's  going  to  stay  for  a  fortnight 
with  Mrs.  Grayper.  Mrs.  Grayper's  going  to  have  a  lot  of 
company." 

Oh!  If  that  was  it,  I  was  quite  ready  to  go.  I  waited,  in 
the  utmost  impatience  until  my  mother  came  home  from  Mrs. 
Grayper's  (for  it  was  that  identical  neighbor)  to  ascertain  if 
we  could  get  leave  to  carry  out  this  great  idea.  Without 
being  nearly  so  much  surprised  as  I  had  expected,  my 
mother  entered  into  it  readily,  and  it  was  arranged  that  night, 
and  my  board  and  lodging  during  the  visit  were  to  be  paid 
for. 

The  day  soon  came  for  our  going.  It  was  such  an  early 
day  that  it  came  soon,  even  to  me,  who  was  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
pectation, and  half  afraid  that  an  earthquake  or  a  fiery  moun- 
tain, or  some  other  great  convulsion  of  nature  might  inter- 
pose to  stop  the  expedition.  We  were  to  go  in  a  carrier's 
cart,  which  departed  in  the  morning  after  breakfast.  I  would 
have  given  any  money  to  have  been  allowed  to  wrap  myself 
up  over  night,  and  sleep  in  my  hat  and  boots. 

It  touches  me  nearly  now,  although  I  tell  it  lightly,  to 
recollect  how  eager  I  was  to  leave  my  happy  home;  to  think 
how  little  I  suspected  what  I  did  leave  for  ever. 

I  am  glad  to  recollect  that  when  the  carrier's  cart  was  at 
the  gate,  and  my  mother  stood  there  kissing  me,  a  grateful 
fondness  for  her  and  for  the  old  place  I  had  never  turned 
my  back  upon  before,  made  me  cry.  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  my  mother  cried  too,  and  that  I  felt  her  heart  beat 
against  mine. 

I  am  glad  to  recollect  that  when  the  carrier  began  to 
move,  my  mother  ran  out  at  the  gate,  and  called  to  him  to 
stop,  that  she  might  kiss  me  once  more.  I  am  glad  to  dwell 
upon  the  earnestness  and  love  with  which  she  lifted  up 
her  face  to  mine  and  did  so. 

As  we  left  her  standing  in  the  road,  Mr.  Murdstone  came 
up  to  where  she  was,  and  seemed  to  expostulate  with  her  for 
being  so  moved.  I  was  looking  back,  round  the  awning  of 
the  cart,  and  wondered  what  business  it  was  of  his.  Peg- 
gotty,  who  was  also  looking  back  on  the  other  side,  seemed 
any  thing  but  satisfied  as  the  face  she  brought  back  into  the 
cart  denoted. 

I  sat  looking  at  Peggotty  for  some  time,  in  a  reverie  on 
this  supposititious  case.  Whether,  if  she  were  employed  to 
lose  me,  like  the  boy  in  the  fairy  tale,  I  should  be  able  to 
track  my  way  home  again  by  the  buttons  she  would  shed. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  33 

CHAPTER  III. 

I  HAVE  A  CHANGE. 

The  carrier's  horse  was  the  laziest  horse  in  the  world,  I 
should  hope,  and  shuffled  along  with  his  head  down,  as  if  he 
liked  to  keep  the  people  waiting  to  whom  the  packages  were 
directed.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  he  sometimes  chuckled 
audibly  over  this  reflection,  but  the  carrier  said  he  was  only 
troubled  with  a  cough. 

The  carrier  had  a  way  of  keeping  his  head  down,  like  his 
horse,  and  of  drooping  sleepily  forward  as  he  drove,  with  one 
of  his  arms  on  each  of  his  knees.  I  say  "  drove,"  but  it 
struck  me  that  the  cart  would  have  gone  to  Yarmouth  quite 
as  well  without  him,  for  the  horse  did  all  that — and  as  to 
conversation,  he  had  no  idea  of  it  but  whistling. 

Peggotty  had  got  a  basket  of  refreshments  on  her  knee, 
which  would  have  lasted  us  out  handsomely,  if  we  had  been 
going  to  London  by  the  same  conveyance.  We  ate  a  good 
deal,  and  slept  a  good  deal  Peggotty  always  went  to  sleep 
with  her  chin  upon  the  handle  of  the  basket,  her  hold  of 
which  never  relaxed;  and  I  could  not  have  believed  unless  I 
had  heard  her  do  it,  that  one  defenceless  woman  could  have 
snored  so  much. 

We  made  so  many  deviations  up  and  down  lanes,  and  were 
such  a  long  time  delivering  a  bedstead  at  a  public  house,  and 
calling  at  other  places,  that  I  was  quite  tired,  and  very  glad, 
when  we  saw  Yarmouth.  It  looked  rather  spongy  and  soppy, 
I  thought,  as  I  carried  my  eye  over  the  great  dull  waste  that 
lay  across  the  river;  and  I  could  not  help  wondering,  if  the 
world  were  really  as  round  as  my  geography-book  said,  how 
any  part  of  it  came  to  be  so  flat.  But  I  reflected  that  Yar- 
mouth might  be  situated  at  one  of  the  poles;  which  would 
account  for  it. 

As  we  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  saw  the  whole  adjacent 
prospect  lying  a  straight  low  line  under  the  sky,  I  hinted  to 
Peggotty  that  a  mounJ  or  so  might  have  improved  it,  and 
also  that  if  the  land  had  been  a  little  more  separated  from 
the  sea,  and  the  town  and  the  tide  had  not  been  quite  so 
much  mixed  up,  like  toast  and  water,  it  would  have  been 
nicer.  But  Peggotty  said,  with  greater  emphasis  than  usual, 
that  we  must  take  things  as  we  found  them,  and  that,  for  her 
part,  she  was  proud  to  call  herself  a  Yarmouth  Bloater. 


34  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

When  we  got  into  the  street  (which  was  strange  enough  t© 
■  me)  and  smelt  the  fish,  and  pitch,  and  oakum,  and  tar,  and 
saw  the  sailors  walking  about,  and  the  carts  jingling  up  and 
down  over  the  stones,  I  felt  that  I  had  done  so  busy  a  place 
an  injustice,  and  said  as  much  to  Peggotty,  who  heard  my 
expressions  of  delight  with  great  complacency,  and  told  me 
it  was  well  known  (I  suppose  to  those  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  born  Bloaters)  that  Yarmouth  was,  upon  the 
whole,  the  finest  place  in  the  universe. 

"Here's  my  Am!"  screamed  Peggotty,  "growed  out  of 
knowledge  !" 

He  was  waiting  for  us,  in  fact,  at  the  public-house,  and 
asked  me  how  I  found  myself,  like  an  old  acquaintance.  I 
did  not  feel,  at  first,  that  I  knew  him  as  well  as  he  knew  me, 
because  he  had  never  come  to  our  house  since  the  night  I 
was  born,  and  naturally  he  had  the  advantage  of  me.  But 
©ur  intimacy  was  much  advanced  by  his  taking  me  on  his 
back  to  carry  me  home.  He  was  now  a  huge,  strong  fellow 
of  six  feet  high,  broad  in  proportion,  and  round-shouldered; 
but  with  a  simpering  boy's  face,  and  curly  light  hair,  that 
gave  him  quite  a  sheepish  look.  He  was  dressed  in  a  can- 
vas jacket,  and  a  pair  of  such  very  stiff  trousers  that  they 
would  have  stood  quite  as  well  alone,  without  any  legs  in 
them.  And  you  couldn't  so  properly  have  said  he  wore  a 
hat,  as  that  he  was  covered  in  a  top,  like  an  old  building, 
with  something  pitchy. 

Ham  carrying  me  on  his  back  and  a  small  box  of  ours  un- 
der his  arm,  and  Peggotty  carrying  another  small  box  of 
•ours,  we  turned  down  lanes  bestrewn  with  bits  of  chips  and 
little  hillocks  of  sand,  and  went  past  gas-works,  rope-walks, 
boat  -builders'  yards,  shipwrights'  yards,  ship-breakers'  yards, 
calkers'  yards,  riggers'  lofts,  smiths'  forges,  and  a  great  litter 
of  such  places,  until  we  came  out  upon  the  dull  waste  I  had 
already  seen  at  a  distance;  when  Ham  said, 

"  Yon's  our  house,  Master  Davy  !" 

I  looked  m  all  directions,  as  far  as  I  could  stare  over  the 
wilderness,  and  away  at  the  sea,  and  away  at  the  river,  but 
no  house  could  /  make  out.  There  was  a  black  barge,  or 
some  other  kind  of  superannuated  boat,  not  far  off,  high  and 
dry  on  the  ground,  with  an  iron  funnel  sticking  out  of  it  for 
a  chimney  and  smoking  very  cosily,  but  nothing  else  in  the 
way  of  a  habitation  that  was  visible  to  me. 

^*  That's  not  it  ?"  said  I,  "  that  ship-looking  thing  ?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  $$ 

"  That's  it,  Master  Davy,"  returned  Ham. 

If  it  had  been  Aladdin's  Palace,  roc's  egg  and  all,  I  sup- 
pose I  could  not  have  been  more  charmed  with  the  romantic 
idea  of  living  in  it.  There  was  a  delightful  door  cut  in  the 
side,  and  it  was  roofed  in,  and  there  were  little  windows  in 
it;  but  the  wonderful  charm  of  it  was,  that  it  was  a  real  boat 
which  had  no  doubt  been  upon  the  water  hundreds  of  times, 
and  which  had  never  been  intended  to  be  lived  in,  on  dry- 
land. That  was  the  captivation  of  it  to  me.  If  it  had  ever 
been  meant  to  be  lived  in,  I  might  have  thought  it  small,  or 
inconvenient,  or  lonely,  but  never  having  been  designed  for 
any  such  use,  it  became  a  perfect  abode. 

It  was  beautifully  clean  inside,  and  as  tidy  as  possible. 
There  was  a  table,  and  a  Dutch  clock,  and  a  chest  of  draw- 
ers, and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  there  was  a  tea-tray  with  a 
painting  on  it  of  a  lady  with  a  parasol,  taking  a  walk  with  a 
military-looking  child  who  was  trundling  a  hoop.  The  tray . 
was  kept  from  tumbling  down,  by  a  Bible,  and  the  tray,  if  it 
had  tumbled  down,  would  have  smashed  a  quantity  of  cups 
and  saucers  and  a  teapot  that  were  grouped  around  the  book. 
On  the  walls  there  were  some  common  colored  pictures, 
framed  and  glazed,  of  Scripture  subjects,  such  as  I  have 
never  seen  since  in  the  hands  of  pedlers,  without  seeing  the 
whole  interior  of  Peggotty's  brother's  house  again,  at  one 
view.  Abraham  in  red  going  to  sacrifice  Isaac  in  blue,  and 
Daniel  in  yellow  cast  into  a  den  of  green  lions,  were  the 
most  prominent  of  these.  Over  the  little  mantel-shelf,  was 
a  picture  of  the  Sarah  Jane  Lugger,  built  at  Sunderland, 
with  a  real  little  wooden  stern  stuck  on  to  it;  a  work  of  art, 
combining  composition  with  carpentry,  which  I  considered 
to  be  one  of  the  most  enviable  possessions  that  the  world 
could  afford.  There  were  some  hooks  in  the  beams  of  the 
ceiling,  the  use  of  which  I  did  not  divine  then;  and  some 
lockers  and  boxes  and  conveniences  of  that  sort,  which 
served  for  seats,  and  eked  out  the  chairs. 

All  this,  I  saw  in  the  first  glance  after  I  crossed  the  thresh- 
old— childlike,  according  to  my  theory — and  then  Peggotty 
opened  a  little  door  and  showed  me  my  bedroom.  It  was 
the  completest  and  most  desirable  bedroom  ever  seen;  in  the 
stern  of  the  vessel;  with  a  little  window  where  the  rudder 
used  to  go  through;  a  little  looking-glass,  just  the  right  height 
for  me,  nailed  against  the  wall,  and  framed  with  oyster  shells; 
a  little  bed  which  there  was  just  room  enough  to  get  into; 


56  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  a  nosegay  of  seaweed  in  a  blue  mug  on  the  table.  The 
walls  were  whitewashed  as  white  as  milk,  and  the  patchwork 
counterpane  made  my  eyes  quite  ache  with  its  brightness. 
One  thing  I  particularly  noticed  in  this  delightful  house,  was 
the  smell  of  fish;  which  was  so  searching  that  when  I  took 
out  my  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  my  nose,  I  found  it 
smelt  exactly  as  if  it  had  wrapped  up  a  lobster.  On  my  im- 
parting this  discovery  in  confidence  to  Peggotty,  she  informed 
me  that  her  brother  dealt  in  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish; 
and  I  afterwards  found  that  a  heap  of  these  creatures,   in  a 

-  state  of  wonderful  conglomeration  with  one  another,  and 
never  leaving  off  pinching  whatever  they  laid  hold  of,  were 
usually  to  be  found  in  a  little  wooden  out-house  where  the 
pots  and  kettles  were  kept. 

We  were  welcomed  by  a  very  civil  woman  in  a  white  apron, 
whom  I  had  seen  courtesying  at  the  door  when  I  was  on  Ham's 
back,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  Likewise  by  a  most 
beautiful  Httle  girl  (or  I  thought  her  so)  with  a  necklace  of 
blue  beads  on,  who  wouldn't  let  me  kiss  her  when  I  offered 
to,  but  ran  away  and  hid  herself.     By  and  by,  when  we  had 

-  dined  in  a  sumptuous  manner  off  boiled  dabs,  melted  butter, 
and  potatoes,  with  a  chop  for  me,  a  hairy  man  with  a  very 
good  natured  face,  came  home.  As  he  called  Peggotty 
*'  I.ass,"  and  gave  her  a  hearty  smack  on   the  cheek,    I  had 

***  no  doubt,  from  the  general  propriety  of  her  conduct,  that  he 
was  her  brother;  and  so  he  turned  out:  being j3resently  intro- 
duced to  me  as  Mr.  Peggotty,  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  Glad  to  see  you.  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  You'll  find 
us  rough.  Sir,  but  you'll  find  us  ready." 

I  thanked  him,  and  replied  that  I  was  sure  I  should  be 
happy  in  such  a  delightful  place. 

"  How's  your  ma.  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  Did  you 
leave  her  pretty  jolly  ?" 

1  gave  Mr.  Peggotty  to  understand  that  she  was  as  jolly 
as  I  could  wish,  and  that  she  desired  her  compliments — 
which  was  a  polite  fiction  on  my  part. 

"  I'm  much  obleeged  to  her,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
"  Well,  Sir,  if  you  can  make  out  here,  fur  a  fortnut,  'long  wi' 
her,"  nodding  at  his  sister,  "  and  Ham,  and  little  Em'ly,  we 
shall  be  proud  of  your  company." 

Having  done  the  honors  of  his  house  in  this  hospitable 
manner,  Mr.  Peggotty  went  out  to  wash  himself  in  a  kettle- 
full  of  hot  water,  remarking  that  "  cold  would  never  get  his 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  37 

muck  off."  He  soon  returned,  greatly  improved  in  appear- 
ance, but  so  rubicund,  that  I  couldn't  help  thinking  his  face 
had  this  in  common  with  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish; — that 
it  went  into  the  hot  water  very  black,  and  came  out  very  red. 

After  tea,  when  the  door  was  shut  and  all  was  made  snug 
(the  nights  being  cold  and  misty  now)  it  seemed  to  me  the 
most  delicious  retreat  that  the  imagination  of  man  could 
conceive.  To  hear  the  wind  getting  out  at  sea,  to  know  that 
the  fog  was  creeping  over  the  desolate  flat  outside,  and  to 
look  at  the  fire,  and  think  that  there  was  no  house  near  but 
this  one,  and  this  one  a  boat,  was  like  enchantment.  Little 
Em'ly.had  overcome  her  shyness,  and  was  sitting  by  my  side 
upon  the  lowest  and  least  of  the  lockers,  which  was  just  large 
enough  for  us  two,  and  just  fitted  into  the  chimney  corner. 
Mrs.  Peggottywith  the  white  apron,  was  knitting  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  fire.  Peggotty  at  her  needle- work  was  as  much 
at  home  with  Saint  Paul's  and  the  bit  of  wax-candle  as  if  they 
had  never  known  any  other  roof.  Plam,  who  had  been  giving 
me  my  first  lesson  in  all-fours,  was  trying  to  recollect  a 
scheme  of  telling  fortunes  with  the  dirty  cards,  and  printing 
off  fishy  impressions  of  his  thumb  on  all  the  carls  he  turned. 
Mr.  Peggotty  was  smoking  his  pipe.  I  felt  it  was  a  time  for 
conversation  and  confidence. 

"  Mr.  Peggotty!"  says  I. 

"  Sir,"  says  he. 

"  Did  you  give  your  son  the  name  of  Ham,  because  you 
lived  in  a  sort  of  Ark?" 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  to  think  it  a  deep  idea,  but  answered  : 

"  No,  sir.     I  never  giv  him  no  name." 

"  Who  gave  him  t^at  name  then?  "  said  I,  putting  question 
number  two  of  the  catechism  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Why,  Sir,  his  father  giv  it  him,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  I  thought  you  were  his  father!" 

"  My  brother  Joe  was  his  father,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty?"  I  hinted,  after  a  respectful  pause. 

"  Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  not 
Ham's  father,  and  began  to  wonder  whether  I  was  mistaken 
about  his  relationship  to  anybody  else  there.  I  was  so 
curious  to  know,  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out 
with  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Little  Em'ly,"  I  said,  glancing  at  her.  "  She  is  your 
daughter,  isn't  she,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 


3«  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  No,  Sir.     My  brother-in-law,  Tom,  was  /^er  father." 

I  couldn't  help  it.  "—Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty?"  I  hinted, 
after  another  respectful  silence. 

"  Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  felt  the  difficulty  of  resuming  the  subject,  but  had  not 
got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet,  and  must  attain  the  bottom 
somehow.     So  I  said: 

"  Haven't  you  a7iy  children,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"  No,  master,"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I'm  a 
bacheldore." 

"  A  bachelor!"  I  said,  astonished.  "  Why,  who's  that,  Mr. 
Peggotty?"  pointing  to  the  person  in  the  apron  wh©  was 
kiJ-vting. 

"  That's  Missis  Gummidge,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Gummidge,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

But  at  this  point,  Peggotty — I  mean  our  own  peculiar  Peg- 
gotty— made  such  impressive  motions  to  me  not  to  ask  any 
further  questions,  that  I  could  only  sit  and  look  at  all  the 
silent  company  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Then,  in  the 
privacy  of  my  own  little  cabin,  she  informed  me  that  Ham 
and  Em'ly  were  an  orphan  nephew  and  niece,  whom  my  host 
had  at  different  times  adopted  in  their  childhood  when  they 
were  left  destitute;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  the  widow 
of  his  partner  in  a  boat,  who  had  died  very  poor.  He  was 
but  a  poor  man  himself,  said  Peggotty,  but  as  good  as  gold 
and  as  true  as  steel — those  were  her  similes.  The  only  sub- 
ject, she  informed  me,  on  which  he  ever  showed  a  violent 
temper  or  swore  an  oath,  was  this  generosity  of  his  ;  and  if  it 
were  ever  referred  to,  by  any  of  them,  he  struck  the  table  a 
heavy  blow  with  his  right  hand  (had  split  it  on  one  occasion), 
and  swore  a  dreadful  oath  that  he  would  be  "gormed"  if  he 
didn't  cut  and  run  for  good,  if  it  was  ever  mentioned  again. 
It  appeared,  in  answer  to  my  inquiries,  that  nobody  had  the 
—  least  idea  of  the  etymology  of  this  terrible  verb  passive  to  be 
^  gormed  ;  but  that  they  all  regarded  it  as  constituting  a  most 
solemn  imprecation. 

I  was  very  sensible  of  my  entertainer's  goodness,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  women's  going  to  bed  in  another  little  crib  like 
mine  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  boat,  and  to  him  and  Ham 
hanging  up  two  hammocks  for  themselves  on  the  hooks  I  had 
noticed  in  the  roof,  in  a  very  luxurious  state  of  mind,  en- 
hanced by  my  being  sleepy.  As  slumber  gradually  stole 
upon  me,  I  heard  the  wind  howling  out  at  sea  and  coming 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  39 

on  across  the  flat  so  fiercely,  that  I  had  a  lazy  apprehension 
of  the  great  deep  rising  in  the  night.  But  I  bethought  my- 
self that  I  was  in  a  boat,  after  all,  and  that  a  man  like  Mr, 
Peggotty  was  not  a  bad  person  to  have  on  board  if  anything 
did  happen. 

Nothing  happened,  however,  worse  than  morning.  Al- 
most as  soon  as  it  shone  upon  the  oyster-shell  frame  of  my 
mirror,  I  was  out  of  bed,  and  out  with  little  Em'ly,  picking 
up  stones  on  the  beach. 

"  You're  quite  a  sailor,  I  suppose  ?"  I  said  to  Em'ly.  I 
don't  know  that  I  supposed  any  thing  of  the  kind,  but  I  felt  it 
an  act  of  gallantry  to  say  something;  and  a  shining  sail  close 
to  us,  made  such  a  prettjr  little  image  of  itself,  at  the  moment, 
in  her  bright  eye,  that  it  came  into  my  head  to  say  this. 

"  No,"  replied  Em'ly,  shaking  her  head.  "  I'm  afraid  of 
the  sea." 

"  Afraid  !"  I  said,  with  a  becoming  air  of  boldness,  and 
looking  very  big  at  the  mighty  ocean.     "  /  ain't." 

"  Ah  !  but  it's  cruel,"  said  Em'ly.  ''  I  have  seen  it  very 
cruel  to  some  of  our  men.  I  have  seen  it  tear  a  boat  as  big 
as  our  house,  all  to  pieces." 

"  I  hope  it  wasn't  the  boat  that " 

"  That  father  was  drownded  in  ?"  said  Em'ly.  "  No. 
Not  that  one,  I  never  see  that  boat."  ^ 

"  Nor  him  ?"  I  asked  her. 

Little  Em'ly  shook  her  head.     "  Net  to  remember  !" 

Here  was  a  coincidence  !  I  immediately  went  into  an  ex- 
planation how  I  had  never  seen  my  own  father,  and  how  my 
mother  and  I  had  always  lived  by  ourselves  in  the  happiest 
state  imaginable,  and  lived  so  then,  and  always  meant  to  live 
so;  and  how  my  father's  grave  was  in  the  churchyard  near 
our  house,  and  shaded  by  a  tree,  beneath  the  boughs  of 
which  I  had  walked  and  heard  the  birds  sing  many  a  pleasant 
morning.  But  there  were  some  differences  between  Em'ly's 
orphanhood  and  mine,  it  appeared.  She  had  lost  her  mother 
before  her  father;  and  where  her  father's  grave  was  no  one 
knew,  except  that  it  was  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

"  Besides,"  said  Em'ly,  as  she  looked  about  for  shells  and 
pebbles,  "  your  father  was  a  gentleman  and  your  mother  is  a 
lady;  and  my  father  was  a  fisherman,  and  my  mother  was 
a  fisherman's  daughter,  and  my  uncle  Dan  is  a  fisher* 
man." 

"  Dan  is  Mr.  Peggotty,  is  he  ?"  said  L 


40  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Uncie  Dan — yonder,"  answered  Em'ly,  nodding  at  the 
boat-house. 

"  Yes.  I  mean  him.  He  must  be  very  good,  I  should 
think  ?" 

"  Good  ?"  said  Em'ly.  "  If  I  was  ever  to  be  a  lady,  I'd 
give  him  a  sky-blue  coat  with  diamond  buttons,  nankeen 
trousers,  a  red  velvet  waistcoat,  a  cocked  hat,  a  large  gold 
watch,  a  silver  pipe,  and  a  box  of  money." 

I  said  I  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peggotty  well  deserved 
these  treasures.  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  felt  it  difficult 
to  picture  him  quite  at  his  ease  in  the  raiment  proposed  for 
him  by  his  grateful  little  niece,  and  that  I  was  particularly 
doubtful  of  the  policy  of  the  cocked  hat;  but  I  kept  these 
sentiments  to  myself. 

Little  Em'ly  had  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  in  her 
enumeration  of  these  articles,  as  if  they  were  a  glorious  vision. 
"We  went  on  again,  picking  up  shells  and  pebbles. 

"  You  would  like  to  be  a  lady  ?"  I  said. 

Emily  looked  at  me,  and  laughed,  and  nodded  "  yes." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  We  would  all  be  gentlefolks 
together,  then.  Me,  and  uncle,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge.  We  wouldn't  mind  then,  when  there  come  stormy 
weather.  Not  for  our  own  sakes,  I  mean.  We  would  for 
the  poor  fishermen's,  to  be  sure,  and  we'd  help  'em  with 
motley  when  they  come  to  any  hurt." 

This  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  very  satisfactory,  and  therefore 
not  at  all  improbable  picture.  I  expressed  my  pleasure  in 
the  contemplation  of  it,  and  little  Em'ly  was  emboldened  to 
say,  shyly, 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  afraid  of  the  sea,  now  ?" 

It  was  quite  enough  to  reassure  me,  but  I  have  no  doubt 
if  I  had  seen  a  moderately  large  wave  come  tumbling  in,  I 
should  have  taken  to  my  heels,  with  an  awful  recollection  of 
her  drowned  relations.  However,  I  said  "  No,"  and  I  added, 
"  You  don't  seem  to  be,  either,  though  you  say  you  are;" — ■ 
for  she  was  walking  much  too  near  the  brink  of  a  sort  of  old 
jetty  or  wooden  causeway  we  had  strolled  upon,  and  I  was 
afraid  of  her  falling  over. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  in  this  way,"  said  little  Em'ly.  "  But  I 
wake  when  it  blows,  and  tremble  to  think  of  uncle  Dan  and 
Ham,  and  believe  I  hear  'em  crying  out  for  help.  That's 
why  I  should  like  so  much  to  be  a  lady.  But  I'm  not  afraid 
in  this  way.     Not  a  bit.     Look  here  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  4, 

She  started  from  my  side,  and  ran  along  a  jagged  timber 
which  protruded  from  the  place  we  stood  upon,  and  over- 
hung the  deep  water  at  some  height,  without  the  least  defence. 
The  incident  is  so  impressed  upon  my  remembrance,  that  if 
I  were  a  draughtsman  I  could  draw  its  form  here,  I  dare  say, 
accurately  as  it  was  that  day,  and  Little  Em'ly  springing  for- 
ward to  her  destruction  (as  it  appeared  to  me),  with  a  look 
that  I  have  never  forgotten,  directed  out  to  sea. 

The  light,  bold,  fluttering  little  figure  turned  and  came 
back  safe  to  me,  and  I  soon  laughed  at  my  fears,  and  at  the 
cry  I  had  uttered;  fruitlessly  in  any  case,  for  there  was  no 
one  near.  But  there  have  been  times  since,  in  my  manhood, 
many  times  there  have  been,  when  I  have  thought.  Is  it  possi- 
ble, among  the  possibilities  of  hidden  things,  that  in  the  sud- 
den rashness  of  the  child,  and  her  wild  look  so  far  off,  there 
was  any  merciful  attraction  of  her  into  danger,  any  tempting 
her  towards  him  permitted  on  the  part  of  her  dead  father, 
that  her  life  might  have  a  chance  of  ending,  that  day  ! 
There  has  been  a  time  since,  when  I  have  wondered  whether, 
if  the  life  before  her  could  have  been  revealed  to  me  at  a 
glance,  and  so  revealed  as  that  a  child  could  fully  compre- 
hend it,  and  if  her  preservation  could  have  depended  on  a 
motion  of  my  hand,  I  ought  to  have  held  it  up  to  save  her. 
There  has  been  a  time  since — I  do  not  say  it  lasted  long, 
but  it  has  been — when  I  have  asked  myself  the  question, 
would  it  have  been  better  for  little  Em'ly  to  have  had  the 
waters  close  above  her  head  that  morning  in  my  sight ;  and 
when  I  have  answered.  Yes,  it  would  have  been. 

This  may  be  premature.  I  have  set  it  down  too  soon,  per- 
haps.    But  let  it  stand. 

We  strolled  a  long  way,  and  loaded  ourselves  with  things 
that  we  thought  curious,  and  put  some  stranded  star-fish 
carefully  back  into  the  water — I  hardly  know  enough  of  the 
race  at  this  moment  to  be  quite  certain  whether  they  had 
reason  to  feel  obliged  to  us  for  doing  so,  or  the  reverse — and 
then  made  our  way  home  to  Mr.  Peggotty's  dwelling.  We 
stopped  under  the  lee  of  the  lobster-outhouse  to  exchange  an 
innocent  kiss,  and  went  in  to  breakfast  glowing  with  health 
and  pleasure. 

"  Like  two  young  mavishes,"  Mr.  Peggotty  said.  I  knew 
this  meant,  in  our  local  dialect,  like  two  young  thrushes,  and 
received  it  as  a  compliment. 

Of  course  I  was  in  love  with  little  Em'ly.     I  am  sure  I 


4«  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

loved  that  baby  quite  as  truly,  quite  as  tenderly,  with  greater 
purity,  and  more  disinterestedness,  than  can  enter  into  the 
best  love  of  a  later  time  of  life,  high  and  ennobling  as  it  is. 
I  am  sure  my  fancy  raised  up  something  round  that  blue- 
eyed  mite  of  a  child,  which  etherealized,  and  made  a  very 
angel  of  her.  If,  any  sunny  forenoon,  she  had  spread  a 
little  pair  of  wings  and  flown  away  before  my  eyes,  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  regarded  it  as  much  more  than  I  had 
had  reason  to  expect. 

We  used  to  walk  about  that  dim  old  flat  at  Yarmouth  in  a 
loving  manner,  hours  and  hours.  The  days  sported  by  us,  as 
if  Time  had  not  grown  up  himself  yet,  but  were  a  child  too, 
and  always  at  play.  I  told  Em'ly  I  adored  her,  and  that  un- 
less she  confessed  she  adored  me  I  should  be  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  killing  myself  with  a  sword.  She  said  she  did, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  she  did. 

As  to  any  sense  of  inequality,  or  youthfulness,  or  other 
difficulty  in  our  way,  little  Em'ly  and  I  had  no  such  trouble, 
because  we  had  no  future.  We  made  no  more  provision  for 
growing  older,  than  we  did  for  growing  younger.  We  were 
the  admiration  of  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Peggotty,  who  used 
to  whisper  of  an  evening  when  we  sat,  lovingly,  on  our  little 
locker  side  by  side,  "  Lor  !  wasn't  it  beautiful  !"  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty smiled  at  us  from  behind  his  pipe,  and  Ham  grinned 
all  the  evening  and  did  nothing  else.  They  had  something 
of  the  sort  of  pleasure  in  us,  I  suppose,  that  they  might 
have  had  in  a  toy,  or  a  pocket  model  of  the  Colosseum. 

I  soon  found  out  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  always 
make  herself  so  agreeable  as  she  might  have  been  expected 
to  do,  under  the  circumstances  of  her  residence  with  Mr. 
Peggotty.  Mrs.  Gummidge's  was  rather  a  fretful  disposition, 
and  she  whimpered  more  sometimes  than  was  comfortable 
for  other  parties  in  so  small  an  establishment.  I  was  very 
sorry  for  her,  but  there  were  moments  when  it  would  have 
been  more  agreeable,  I  thought,  if  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  had 
a  convenient  apartment  of  her  own  to  retire  to,  and  had 
stopped  there  until  her  spirits  revived. 

Mr.  Peggotty  went  occasionally  to  a  public  house  called 
The  Willing  Mind.  I  discovered  this,  by  his  being  out  on 
the  second  or  third  evening  of  our  visit,  and  by  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge's looking  up  at  the  Dutch  clock,  between  eight  and 
nine,  and  saying  he  was  there,  and  that,  what  was  more,  she 
had  known  in  the  morning  he  would  go  there. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  43 

Mrs.  Gummidge  had  been  in  a  low  state  all  day,  and  had 
burst  into  tears  in  the  forenoon,  when  the  fire  smoked.  "  I 
am  a  lone  lorn  creetur',''  were  Mrs.  Gummidge's  words,  when 
that  unpleasant  occurrence  took  place,  "  and  every  think 
goes  contrairy  with  me." 

"  Oh,  it  '11  soon  leave  off,"  said  Peggotty — I  again  mean 
our  Peggotty — *'  and  besides,  you  know,  it's  not  more  disa- 
greeable to  you  than  to  us." 

"  I  feel  it  more,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

It  was  a  very  cold  day,  with  cutting  blasts  of  wind.  Mrs. 
Gummidge's  peculiar  corner  of  theffireside  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  warmest  and  snuggest  in  the  place,  as  her  chair  was  cer- 
tainly the  easiest,  but  it  didn't  suit  her  that  day  at  all.  She  was 
constantly  complaining  of  the  cold,  and  of  its  occasioning  a 
visitation  in  her  back  which  she  called  **  the  creeps."  At  last 
she  shed  tears  on  that  subject,  and  said  again  that  she  was  '*  a 
lone  lorn  creetur'  and  every  think  went  contrairy  with  her." 

"  It  is  certainly  very  cold,"  said  Peggotty.  "  Every  body 
must  feel  it." 

"  I  feel  it  more  than  other  people,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

So  at  dinner,  when  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  always  helped 
immediately  after  me,  to  whom  the  preference  was  given  as 
a  visitor  of  distinction.  The  fish  were  small  and  bony,  and 
the  potatoes  were  a  little  burnt.  We  all  acknowledged  that 
we  felt  this  something  of  a  disappointment;  but  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge said  she  felt  it  more  than  we  did,  and  shed  tears  again, 
and  made  that  former  declaration  with  great  bitterness. 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Peggotty  came  home  about  nine 
o'clock,  this  unfortunate  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  knitting  in  her 
corner  in  a  very  wretched  and  miserable  condition.  Peg- 
gotty had  been  working  cheerfully.  Ham  had  been  patching 
up  a  great  pair  of  water-boots,  and  I,  with  little  Em'ly  by 
my  side,  had  been  reading  to  them.  Mrs.  Gummidge  had 
never  made  any  other  remark  than  a  forlorn  sigh,  and  had 
never  raised  her  eyes  since  tea. 

"  Well,  mates,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  taking  his  seat,  "  and 
how  are  you  ?" 

We  all  said  something,  or  looked  something,  to  welcome 
him,  except  Mrs.  Gummidge,  who  shook  her  head  over  her 
knitting. 

"  What's  amiss?"  said  Mr.Peggotty,  with  a  clap  of  his  hands. 
**  Cheer  up,  old  Mawther  !"  (Mr.  Peggotty  meant  old  girl.) 

Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  appear   to  be  able  to   cheer  up. 


44  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

She  took  out  an  old  black  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  her 
eyes,  but  instead  of  putting  it  in  her  pocket,  kept  it  out,  and 
wiped  them  again,  and  still  kept  it  out  ready  for  use. 

"  What's  amiss,  dame  ?"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  You've  come 
from  The  WiUing  Mind,  Dan'l  ?" 

"  Why  yes,  I've  took  a  short  spell  at  The  Willing  Mind  to 
night,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  should  drive  you  there,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

"  Drive!  I  don't  want  no  driving,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  an  honest  laugh.     "  I  only  go  too  ready." 

"  Very  ready,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  shaking  her  head, 
and  wiping  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  yes,  very  ready.  I  am  sorry  it 
should  be  along  of  me  that  you're  so  ready." 

"  Along  o'  you?  It  ain't  along  o'  you!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty 
"  Don't  ye  believe  a  bit  on  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is,"  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  I  know  what 
I  am.  I  know  that  I'm  a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  not  only 
that  every  think  goes  contrairy  with  me,  but  that  I  go  con- 
trairy  with  every  body.  Yes,  yes.  I  feel  more  than  other 
people  do,  and  I  show  it  more.     It's  my  misfortun'." 

I  really  couldn't  help  thinking  as  I  sat  taking  in  all  this, 
that  the  misfortune  extended  to  some  other  members  of  that 
family  besides  Mrs.  Gummidge.  But  Mr.  Peggotty  made  no 
such  retort,  only  answering  with  another  entreaty  to  Mrs. 
Gummidge  to  cheer  up. 

"  I  an't  what  I  could  wish  myself  to  be,"  said  Mrs,  Gum- 
midge. "  I  am  far  from  it.  I  know  what  I  am.  My 
troubles  has  made  me  contrairy.  I  feel  my  troubles,  and 
they  make  me  contrairy.  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  'em,  but  I  do. 
I  wish  I  could  be  hardened  to  'em,  but  I  ain't.  I  make  the 
house  uncomfortable.  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  I've  made 
your  sister  so  all  day,  and  Master  Davy." 

Here  I  was  suddenly  melted,  and  roared  out,  "  No,  you 
haven't  Mrs.  Gummidge  ;"  in  great  mental  distress. 

"  It's  far  from  right  that  1  should  do  it,"  said  Mrs,  Gum- 
midge. "  It  an't  a  fit  return.  I  had  better  go  into  the 
House  and  die.  I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  had  much 
better  not  make  myself  contrairy  here.  If  thinks  must  go 
contrairy  with  me,  and  I  must  go  contrairy  myself,  let  me 
go  contrairy  in  my  Parish.  Dan'l,  I'd  better  go  into  the 
House,  and  die  and  be  a  riddance  !" 

Mrs.  Gummidge  retired  with  these  words,  and  betook  her- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  45 

self  to  bed.  When  she  was  gone,  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had  not 
exhibited  a  .trace  of  any  feeling  but  the  profoundest  sym- 
pathy, looked  round  upon  us,  and  nodding  his  head  with  a 
lively  expression  of  that  sentiment  still  animating  his  face, 
said  in  a  whisper: 

"  She's  been  thinking  of  the  old  'un." 

I  did  not  quite  understand  what  Old  One  Mrs.  Gummidge 
was  supposed  to  have  fixed  her  mind  upon,  until  Peggotty, 
on  seeing  me  to  bed,  explained  that  it  was  the  late  Mr. 
Gummidge,  and  that  her  brother  always  took  that  for  a 
received  truth  on  such  occasions,  and  that  it  always  had  a 
moving  effect  upon  him.  Some  time  after  he  was  in  his  ham- 
mock that  night,  I  heard  him  myself  repeat  to  Ham,  "  Poor 
thing  !  She's  been  thinking  of  the  old  'un  !"  And  when- 
ever Mrs.  Gummidge  was  overcome  in  a  similar  manner  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  our  stay  (which  happened  some  few 
times)  he  always  said  the  same  thing  in  extenuation  of  the 
circumstance,  and  always  with  the  tenderest  commiseration. 

So  the  fortnight  slipped  away,  varied  by  nothing  but  the 
variation  of  the  tide,  which  altered  Mr.  Peggotty's  times  of 
going  out  and  coming  in,  and  altered  Ham's  engagements 
also.  When  the  latter  was  unemployed,  he  sometimes  walked 
with  us  to  show  us  the  boats  and  ships,  and  once  or  twice 
he  took  us  for  a  row.  I  don't  know  why  one  slight  set  of 
impressions  should  be  more  particularly  associated  with  a 
place  than  another,  though  I  believe  this  obtains  with  most 
people,  in  reference  especially,  to  the  associations  of  their 
childhood.  I  never  hear  the  name,  or  read  the  name,  of 
Yarmouth,  but  I  am  reminded  of  a  certain  Sunday  morning 
on  the  beach,  the  bells  ringing  for  church,  little  Em'ly  lean- 
ing on  my  shoulder,  Ham  lazily  dropping  stones  into  the 
water,  and  the  sun,  away  at  sea,  just  breaking  through  the 
heavy  mist,  and  showing  us  the  ships,  like  their  own  shadows. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  going  home.  I  bore  up  against 
the  separation  from  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  but 
my  agony  of  mind  at  leaving  little  Em'ly  was  piercing.  We 
went  arm  in  arm  to  the  public  house  where  the  carrier  put 
up,  and  I  promised,  on  the  road,  to  write  to  her.  (I  redeemed 
that  promise  afterwards  in  characters  larger  than  those  in 
which  apartments  are  usually  announced  in  manuscript,  as 
being  to  let.)  We  were  greatly  overcome  at  parting,  and  if 
ever,  in  my  life,  I  have  had  a  void  made  in  my  bea^rtj  I  ha(J 
one  made  that  day. 


4«  '     DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Now,  all  the  time  I  had  been  on  my  visit,  I  had  been  un- 
grateful to  my  home  again,  and  had  thought  little  or  nothing 
about  it.  But  I  was  no  sooner  turned  towards  it,  than  my 
reproachful  young  conscience  seemed  to  point  that  way  wifh 
a  steady  finger,  and  I  felt,  all  the  more  for  the  sinking  of  my 
spirits,  that  it  was  my  nest,  and  that  my  mother  was  my  com- 
forter and  friend. 

This  gained  upon  me  as  we  went  along;  so  that  the  nearer 
we  drew,  and  the  more  familiar  the  objects  became  that  we 
passed,  the  more  excited  I  was  to  get  there,  and  to  run  into 
her  arms.  But  Peggotty,  instead  of  sharing  in  these  trans- 
ports, tried  to  check  them  (though  very  kindly)  and  looked 
confused  and  out  of  sorts. 

Blunderstone  Rookery  would  come,  however,  in  spite  of 
her  when  the  carrier's  horse  pleased — and  did.  How  well 
I  recollect  it,  on  a  cold  gray  afternoon,  with  a  dull  sky, 
threatening  rain! 

The  door  opened,  and  I  looked,  half  laughing  and  half 
crying  in  my  pleasant  agitation,  for  my  mother.  It  was  not 
she,  but  a  strange  servant. 

"  Why,  Peggotty!"  I  said  ruefully.  "  Isn't  she  come  home?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  Master  Davy,"  said  Peggotty.  "She's  come  home. 
Wait  a  bit.  Master  Davy,  and  I'll — ^I'll  tell  you  something." 

Between  her  agitation  and  her  natural  awkwardness  in 
getting  out  of  the  cart,  Peggotty  was  making  a  most  extraor- 
dinary festoon  of  herself,  but  I  felt  too  blank  and  strange  to 
tell  her  so.  When  she  had  got  down,  she  took  me  by  the 
hand;  led  me,  wondering,  into  the  kitchen;  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Peggotty!"  said  I,  quite  frightened.  "  What's  the  matter!" 

"  Nothing's  the  matter,  bless  you,  Master  Davy,  dear!" 
she  answered,  assuming  an  air  of  sprightliness. 

"  Something's  the  matter,  I  am  sure.     Where's  mamma  ?'* 

"  Where's  mamma,  Master  Davy?"  repeated  Peggotty. 

*■'  Yes.  Why  hasn't  she  come  out  of  the  gate,  and  what 
have  we  come  in  here  for!  Oh,  Peggotty  !"  My  eyes  were 
full,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  to  tumble  down. 

"  Bless  the  precious  boy!"  cried  Peggotty,  taking  hold  of 
me.     "  What  is  it?     Speak,  my  pet!" 

"  Not  dead  too!     Oh,  she's  not  dead,  Peggotty  ?" 

Peggotty  cried  out  with  an  astonishing  volume  of  voice, 
and  then  sat  down  and  began  to  pant,  and  said  I  had 
given  her  a  turn. 

I  gave  her  a  hug  to  take  away  the  turn,  or  to  give  her 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  47 

another  turn  in  the  right  direction,  and  then  stood  before 
her,  looking  at  her  in  dumb  inquiry. 

"  You  see,  dear,  I  should  have  told  you  before  now,"  said 
Peggotty,  "  but  I  hadn't  an  opportunity.  I  ought  to  have 
made  it,  perhaps,  but  I  couldn't  axackly  " — that  was  always 
the  substitute  for  exactly,  in  Peggotty's  militia  of  words — 
"bring  my  mind  to  it." 

"  Go  on,  Peggotty,"  says  I,  more  frightened  than  ever. 

"  Master  Davy,"  said  Peggotty,  untying  her  bonnet  with  a 
shaking  hand,  and  speaking  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way, 
"  what  do  you  think  ?     You  have  got  a  pa  !  " 

I  trembled  and  turned  white.  Something — I  don't  know 
what,  or  how — connected  with  the  grave  in  the  churchyard, 
and  the  raising  of  the  dead,  seemed  to  strike  me  like  an 
unwholesome   wind. 

"  A  new  one,"  said  Peggotty. 

"  A  new  one  ?"  I  repeated. 

Peggotty  gave  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  swallowing  some- 
thing that  was  very  hard,  and,  putting  out  her  hand,  said: 

"Come  and  see  him." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  him.*' 

— "  And  your  mamma,"  said  Peggotty. 

I  ceased  to  draw  back,  and  we  went  straight  to  the  best 
parlor,  where  she  left  me.  On  one  side  of  the  fire  sat  my 
mother;  on  the  other,  Mr.  Murdstone.  My  mother  dropped 
her  work,  and  arose  hurriedly,  but  timidly  I  thought. 

"  Now,  Clara,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone.  "  Recollect ! 
control  yourself,  always  control  yourself!  Davy  boy,  how  do 
you  do  !" 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  After  a  moment  of  suspense,  I  went 
and  kissed  my  mother;  she  kissed  me,  patted  me  gently  on 
the  shoulder,  and  sat  down  again  to  her  work.  I  could  not 
look  at  her,  I  could  not  look  at  him,  I  knew  quite  well  that 
he  was  looking  at  us  both — and  I  turned  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  there,  at  some  shrubs  that  were  drooping  their 
heads  in  the  cold. 

As  soon  as  I  could  creep  away,  I  crept  up  stairs.  My  old 
dear  bedroom  was  changed,  and  I  was  to  lie  a  long  way  off. 
I  rambled  down  stairs  to  find  any  thing  that  was  like  itself; 
so  altered  it  all  seemed;  and  roamed  into  the  yard.  I  very 
soon  started  back  from  there,  for  the  empty  dog-kennel  was 
filled  up  with  a  great  dog — deep-mouthed  and  black-haired 
like  Him — and  he  was  very  angry  at  the  sight  of  me,  and 
sprung  out  to  get  at  me. 


4S  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER   IV, 

I  FALL  INTO   DISGRACE. 

If  the  room  to  which  my  bed  was  removed,  were  a  sentient 
thing  that  could  give  evidence,  I  might  appeal  to  it  at  this 
day — who  sleeps  there  now  I  wonder! — to  bear  witness  for  me 
what  a  heavy  heart  I  carried  to  it.  I  went  up  there,  hearing 
the  dog  in  the  yard  bark  after  me  all  the  way  while  I  climbed 
the  stairs;  and,  looking  as  blank  and  strange  upon  the  room 
as  the  room  looked  upon  me,  sat  down  with  my  small  hands 
crossed,  and  thought. 

I  thought  of  the  oddest  things.  Of  the  shape  of  the  room, 
of  the  cracks  in  the  ceiling,  of  the  paper  on  the  wall,  of  the 
flaws  in  the  window-glass  making  ripples  and  dimples  on  the 
prospect,  of  the  washing-stand  being  rickety  on  its  three 
legs,  and  having  a  discontented  something  about  it,  which  re- 
minded me  of  Mrs.Gummidge  under  the  influence  of  the  old 
one.  I  was  crying  all  the  time,  but,  except  that  I  was  con- 
scious of  being  cold  and  dejected,  I  am  sure  I  never  thought 
why  I  cried.  At  last  in  my  desolation  I  began  to  consider 
that  I  was  dreadfully  in  love  with  little  Em'ly  and  had  been 
torn  away  from  her  to  come  here  where  no  one  seemed  to 
want  me,  or  to  care  about  me,  half  as  much  as  she  did. 
This  made  such  a  very  miserable  piece  of  business  of  it,  that 
I  rolled  myself  up  in  a  corner  of  the  counterpane,  and  cried 
myself  to  sleep. 

I  was  awoke  by  somebody  saying  "  Here  he  is  !"  and  un- 
covering my  hot  head.  My  mother  and  Peggotty  had  come 
to  look  for  me,  and  it  was  one  of  them  who  had  done  it. 

"  Davy,"  said  my  mother.     "  What's  the  matter  ?" 

I  thought  it  very  strange  that  she  should  ask  me,  and 
answered  "  Nothing."  I  turned  over  on  my  face,  I  recollect, 
to  hide  my  trembling  lip,  which  answered  her  with  greater 
truth. 

"  Davy,"  said  my  mother.     *'  Davy,  my  child  !" 

I  dare  say  no  words  she  could  have  uttered,  would  have 
affected  me  so  much,  then,  as  her  calling  me  her  child.  I 
hid  my  tears  in  the  bedclothes,  and  pressed  her  from  me 
with  my  hand,  when  she  would  have  raised  me  up. 

"  This  is  your  doing,  Peggotty,  you  cruel  thing  !"  said  my 
mother.  "  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  about  it.  How  can  you 
reconcile  it  to  your  conscience,  I  wonder,  to  prejudice  my 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  49 

own  boy  against  me,  or  against  anybody  who  is  dear  to  me? 
What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Peggotty  ?" 

Poor  Peggotty  lifted  up  her  hands  and  eyes,  and  only 
answered,  in  a  sort  of  paraphrase  of  the  grace  I  usually  re- 
peated after  dinner  "  Lord  forgive  you,  Mrs.  Copperfield, 
and  for  what  you  have  said  this  minute,  may  you  never  be 
truly  sorry  !" 

"  It's  enough  to  distract  me,"  cried  my  mother.  "  In  my 
honeymoon,  too,  when  my  most  inveterate  enemy  might 
relent,  one  would  think,  and  not  envy  me  a  little  peace  of 
mind  and  happiness.  Davy,  you  naughty  boy!  Peggotty, 
you  savage  creature!  Oh,  dear  me  !"  cried  my  mother, 
turning  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  in  her  pettish  willful 
manner,  "  what  a  troublesome  world  this  is,  when  one  has 
the  most  right  to  expect  it  to  be  as  agreeable  as  possible  !" 

I  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  that  I  knew  was  neither  hers 
nor  Peggotty's  and  slipped  to  my  feet  at  the  bedside.  It  was 
Mr.  Murdstone's  hand,  and  he  kept  it  on  my  arm  as  he  said: 

"  What's  this?  Clara,  my  love,  have  you  forgotten  ! — 
Firmness,  my  dear?" 

*'  I  am  very  sorry,  Edward,"  said  my  mother.  "I  meant  to 
be  very  good,  but  I  am  so  uncomfortable." 

*'  Indeed!"  he  answered.  **  That's  a  bad  hearing,  so  soon, 
Clara." 

"  I  say  it's  very  hard  I  should  be  made  so  now,"  returned 
my  mother,  pouting;  "  and  it  is — very  hard —  isn't  it?" 

He  drew  her  to  him,  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  kissed  her. 
I  knew  as  well,  when  I  saw  my  mother's  head  lean  down 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  arm  touch  his  neck — I  knew  as 
well  that  he  could  mould  her  pliant  nature  into  any  form  he 
chose,  as  I  know,  now,  that  he  did  it. 

**  Go  you  below,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone.  "  David 
and  I  will  come  down,  together.  My  friend,"  turning  a 
darkening  face  on  Peggotty  when  he  had  watched  my  mother 
out  and  dismissed  her  with  a  nod  and  a  smile:  "  do  you 
know  your  mistress's  name  ?" 

"  She  has  been  my  mistress  a  long  time,  sir,"  answered 
Peggotty.    "  I  ought  to  it." 

"  That's  true,"  he  answered.  "  I  thought  I  heard  you,  as 
I  came  upstairs,  address  her  by  a  name  that  is  not  hers. 
She  has  taken  mine  you  know.     Will  you  remember  that  ?" 

Peggotty,  with  some  uneasy  glances  at  me,  courtesied 
herself  out  of  the  room  without,  replying  ;  seeing,  I  suppose, 


50  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

that  she  was  expected  to  go,  and  had  no  excuse  for  remain- 
ing. When  we  two  were  left  alone,  he  shut  the  door,  and 
sitting  on  a  chair,  and  holding  me  standing  before  him, 
looked  steadily  into  my  eyes.  I  felt  my  own  attracted,  no 
less  steadily,  to  his.  As  I  recall  our  being  opposed  thus, 
face  to  face,  I  seem  again  to  hear  my  heart  beat  fast  and 
high. 

"  David,"  he  said,  making  his  lips  thin,  by  pressing  them 
together,  "  if  I  have  an  obstinate  horse  or  dog  to  deal  with, 
what  do  you  think  I  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  beat  him." 

I  had  answered  in  a  kind  of  breathless  whisper,  but  I  felt, 
in  my  silence,  that  my  breath  was  shorter  now. 

"  I  make  him  wince,  and  smart.  I  say  to  myself,  *  I'll 
conquer  that  fellow;'  and  if  it  were  to  cost  him  all  the 
blood  he  had,  I  should  do  it.    What  is  that  upon  your  face  ?" 

"  Dirt,"  I  said. 

He  knew  it  was  the  mark  of  tears  as  well  as  I.  But  if  he 
had  asked  the  question  twenty  times,  each  time  with  twenty 
blows,  I  believe  my  baby  heart  would  have  burst  before  I 
would  have  told  him  so. 

"  You  have  a  good  deal  of  intelligence  for  a  little  fellow," 
tie  said,  with  a  grave  smile  that  belonged  to  him,  "  and  you 
understood  me  very  well,  I  see.  Wash  that  face,  sir,  and 
come  down  with  me." 

He  pointed  to  the  washing-stand,  which  I  had  made  out 
to  be  like  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  motioned  me  with  his  head 
to  obey  him  directly.  I  had  little  doubt  then,  and  I  have 
less  doubt  now,  that  he  would  have  knocked  me  down  with- 
out the  least  compunction,  if  I  had  hesitated. 

*'  Clara,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  I  had  done  his  bidding, 
and  he  walked  me  into  the  parlor,  with  his  hand  still  on  my 
arm,  "  you  will  not  be  made  uncomfortable  any  more,  I  hope. 
We  shall  soon  improve  our  youthful  humors." 

God  help  me,  I  might  have  been  improved  for  my  whole 
life,  I  might  have  been  made  another  creature,  perhaps,  for 
life,  by  a  kind  word  at  that  season.  A  word  of  encouragement 
and  explanation,  of  pity  for  my  childish  ignorance,  of  wel- 
come home,  of  reassurance  to  me  that  it  was  home,  might 
have  made  me  dutiful  to  him  in  my  heart  henceforth,  in- 
stead of  in  my  hypocritical  outside,  and  might  have  made  me 
respect  instead  of  hate  hira.    I  thought  my  mother  was 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  51 

/ 
sorry  to  see  me  standing  in  the  room  so  scared  and  strange, 
and  that,  presently,  when  I  stole  to  a  chair,  she  followed  me 
with  her  eyes  more  sorrowfully  still — missing,  perhaps,  some 
freedom  in  my  childish  tread — but  the  word  was  not  spoken, 
and  the  time  for  it  was  gone. 

We  dined  alone,  we  three  together.  He  seemed  to  be  very 
fond  of  my  mother — I  am  afraid  I  liked  him  none  the  better 
for  that — and  she  was  very  fond  of  him.  I  gathered  from 
what  they  said,  that  an  elder  sister  of  his  was  coming  to  stay 
with  them,  and  that  she  was  expected  that  evening.  I  am 
not  certain  whether  I  found  out  then,  or  afterwards,  that, 
without  being  actively  concerned  in  any  business,  he  had 
some  share  in,  or  some  annual  charge  upon  the  profits  of,  a 
wine-merchant's  house  in  London,  with  which  his  family  had 
been  connected  from  his  great-grandfather's  time,  and  in 
which  his  sister  had  a  similar  interest  ;  but  I  may  mention 
it  in  this  place,  whether  or  no. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  I  was 
meditating  an  escape  to  Peggotty  without  having  the  hard- 
ihood to  slip  away,  lest  it  should  offend  the  master  of  the 
house,  a  coach  drove  up  to  the  garden  gate,  and  he  went 
out  to  receive  the  visitor.  My  mother  followed  him.  I  was 
timidly  following  her,  when  she  turned  round  at  the  parlor 
door,  in  the  dusk,  and  taking  me  in  her  embrace  as  she 
used  to  do,  whispered  me  to  love  my  new  father  and  be 
obedient  to  him.  She  did  this  hurriedly  and  secretly,  as  if 
it  were  wrong,  but  tenderly  ;  and,  putting  out  her  hand 
behind  her,  held  mine  in  it  until  we  came  near  to  where  he 
was  standing  in  the  garden,  where  she  let  mine  go,  and  drew 
her's  through  his  arm. 

It  was  Miss  Murdstone  who  was  arrived,  and  a  gloomy- 
looking  lady  she  was;  dark,  like  her  brother,  whom  she 
greatly  resembled  in  face  and  voice;  and  with  very  heavy 
eyebrows,  nearly  meeting  over  her  large  nose,  as  if,  being 
disabled  by  the  wrongs  of  her  sex  from  wearing  whiskers, 
she  had  carried  them  to  that  account.  She  brought  with 
her  two  uncompromising  hard  black  boxes,  with  her  initials 
on  the  lids  in  hard  brass  nails.  When  she  paid  the  coach- 
man she  took  her  money  out  of  a  hard  steel  purse,  and  she 
kept  the  purse  in  a  very  jail  of  a  bag  which  hung  upon  her 
arm  by  a  heavy  chain,  and  shut  up  like  a  bite.  I  had  never, 
at  that  time,  seen  such  a  metallic  lady  altogether  as  Miss 
Murdstone  was. 


$2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

She  was  brought  into  the  parlor  with  many  tokens  of 
•,velcome,  and  there  formally  recognized  my  mother  as  a 
new  and  near  relation.     Then  she  looked  at  me,  and  said: 

"  Is  that  your  boy,  sister-in-law?  " 

My  mother  acknowledged  me. 

"  Generally  speaking,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  "  I  don't 
like  boys.     How  d'ye  do,  boy  ?" 

Under  these  encouraging  circumstances,  I  replied  that  I 
was  very  well,  and  that  I  hoped  she  was  the  same;  with 
such  an  indifferent  grace,  that  Miss  Murdstone  disposed  of 
me  in  two  words: 

"  Wants  manners." 

Having  uttered  which,  with  great  distinctness,  she  begged 
the  favor  of  being  shown  to  her  room,  which  became  to  me 
from  that  time  forth  a  place  of  awe  and  dread,  wherein 
the  two  black  boxes  were  never  seen  open  or  known  to  be 
left  unlocked,  and  where  (for  I  peeped  in  once  or  twice 
when  she  was  out)  numerous  little  steel  fetters  and  rivets, 
with  which  Miss  Murdstone  embellished  herself  when  she 
was  dressed,  generally  hung  upon  the  looking-glass  in 
foimidable  array. 

As  well  as  I  could  make  out,  she  had  come  for  good,  and 
had  no  intention  of  ever  going  again.  She  began  to  "  help" 
my  mother  next  morning,  and  was  in  and  out  of  the  store- 
closet  all  day,  putting  things  to  rights,  and  making  havoc 
in  the  old  arrangements.  Almost  the  first  remarkable  thing 
I  observed  in  Miss  Murdstone  was,  her  being  constantly 
haunted  by  a  suspicion  that  the  servants  had  a  man  secreted 
somewhere  on  the  premises.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
delusion,  she  dived  into  the  coal-cellar  at  the  most  untimely 
hours,  and  scarcely  ever  opened  the  door  of  a  dark  cup- 
board without  clapping  it  to  again,  in  the  belief  that  she  had 
got  him. 

Though  there  was  nothing  very  airy  about  Miss  Murd- 
stone, she  was  a  perfect  lark  in  point  of  getting  up.  She 
was  up  (and,  as  I  believe  to  this  hour,  looking  for  that  man) 
before  anybody  in  the  house  was  stirring.  Peggotty  gave  it 
as  her  opinion  that  she  even  slept  with  one  eye  open;  but  I 
could  not  concur  in  this  idea;  for  I  tried  it  myself  after  hear- 
ing the  suggestion  thrown  out,  and  found  it  couldn't  be  done 

On  the  very  first  morning  after  her  arrival  she  was  up 
and  ringing  her  bell  at  cock-crow.  When  my  mother  came 
down  to  breakfast   and  was  going  to  make  the  tea,   Miss 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  53 

Murdstone  gave  her  a  kind  of  peck  on  the  cheek,  which  was 
her  nearest  approach  to  a  kiss,  and  said: 

"  Now,  Clara,  my  dear,  I  am  come  here,  you  know,  to 
relieve  you  of  all  the  trouble  I  can.  You're  much  too 
pretty  and  thoughtless  " — my  mother  blushed  but  laughed, 
and  seemed  not  to  dislike  this  character — "  to  have  any 
duties  imposed  upon  you  that  can  be  undertaken  by  me. 
If  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  your  keys,  my  dear,  I'll 
attend  to  all  this  sort  of  thing  in  future." 

From  that  time.  Miss  Murdstone  kept  the  keys  in  her 
own  little  jail  all  day,  and  under  her  pillow  all  night,  and 
my  mother  had  no  more  to  do  with  them  than  I  had. 

My  mother  did  not  suffer  her  authority  to  pass  from  her 
without  a  shadow  of  protest.  One  night  when  Miss  Murd- 
stone had  been  developing  certain  household  plans  to  her 
brother,  of  which  he  signified  his  approbation,  my  mother 
suddenly  began  to  cry,  and  said  she  thought  she  might 
have  been  consulted. 

"  Clara  !"  said  Mr.  Murdstone  sternly.  "  Clara!  I  wonder 
at  you." 

"  Oh,  it's  very  well  to  say  you  wonder,  Edward  !"  cried 
my  mother,  "  and  it's  very  well  for  you  to  talk  about  firm- 
ness, but  you  wouldn't  like  it  yourself." 

Firmness,  I  may  observe,  was  the  grand  quality  on  which 
both  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  took  their  stand.  However 
I  might  have  expressed  my  comprehension  of  it  at  that 
time,  if  I  had  been  called  upon,  I  nevertheless  did  clearly 
comprehend  in  my  own  way,  that  it  was  another  name  for 
tyranny,  and  fpr  a  certain  gloomy,  arrogant,  devil's  humor, 
that  was  in  them  both.  The  creed,  as  I  should  state  it 
now,  was  this.  Mr.  Murdstone  was  firm;  nobody  in  his 
world  was  to  be  so  firm  as  Mr.  Murdstone;  nobody  else  in 
his  world  was  to  be  firm  at  all,  for  everybody  was  to  be 
bent  to  his  firmness.  Miss  Murdstone  was  an  exception. 
She  might  be  firm,  but  only  by  relationship,  and  in  an  inferior 
and  tributary  degree.  My  mother  was  another  exception. 
She  might  be  firm  and  must  be;  but  only  in  bearing  their 
firmness,  and  firmly  believing  there  was  no  other  firmness 
upon  earth.  \ 

"  It's  very  hard,"   said   my    mother,  "  that   in  my  own 
house — " 

"  My  own  house  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Murdstone.     "  Clara  ?" 
"  Our  own  house  I  mean,"  faltered  my  mother,  evidently 


54  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

frightened — "  I  hope  you  must  know  what  I  mean,  Edward 
— it's  very  hard  that  in  our  own  house  I  may  not  have  a 
word  to  say  about  domestic  matters.  I  am  sure  I  managed 
very  well  before  we  were  married.  There's  evidence,"  said 
my  mother  sobbing;  "  ask  Peggotty  if  I  didn't  do  very  well 
when  I  wasn't  interfered  with!" 

"  Edward,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  "  let  there  be  an  end  of 
this.     I  go  to-morrow.'* 

"  Jane  Murdstone,"  said  her  brother,  "  be  silent!  How 
dare  you  to  insinuate  that  you  don't  know  my  character  bet- 
ter than  your  words  imply  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,"  my  poor  mother  went  on,  at  a  grievous  dis- 
advantage, and  with  many  tears,  "  I  don't  want  anybody  to 
go.  I  should  be  very  miserable  and  unhappy  if  anybody 
was  to  go.  I  don't  ask  much.  I  am  not  unreasonable.  I 
only  want  to  be  consulted  sometimes.  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  anybody  who  assists  me,  and  I  only  wanted  to  be 
consulted  as  a  mere  form,  sometimes.  I  thought  you  were 
pleased,  once,  with  my  being  a  little  inexperienced  and  girl- 
ish, Edward — I  am  sure  you  said  so — but  you  seem  to  hate 
ine  for  it  now,  you  are  so  severe." 

"  Edward,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  again,  *'  let  there  be  an 
end  of  this.     I  go  to-morrow." 

"  Jane  Murdstone,"  thundered  Mr.  Murdstone.  "  Will 
you  be  silent  ?     How  dare  you  ?" 

Miss  Murdstone  made  a  jail-delivery  of  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and  held  it  before  her  eyes. 

"  Clara,"  he  continued,  looking  at  my  mother,  "  you  sur- 
prise me.  You  astound  me!  Yes,  I  had  a  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  of  marrying  an  inexperienced  arid  artless  per- 
son, and  forming  her  character,  and  infusing  into  it  some 
amount  of  that  firmness  and  decision  of  which  it  stood  in 
need.  But  when  Jane  Murdstone  is  kind  enough  to  come 
to  my  assistance  in  this  endeavor,  and  to  assume,  for  my 
sake,  a  condition  something  like  a  housekeeper's,  and  when 
she  meets  with  a  base  return — " 

"  Oh  pray,  pray,  Edward,"  cried  my  mother,  "  don't  ac- 
cuse me  of  being  ungrateful.  I  am  sure  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful. No  one  ever  said  I  was,  before.  I  have  many  faults, 
tut  not  that.     Oh  don't,  my  dear!" 

"  When  Jane  Murdstone  meets,  I  say,"  he  went  on,  after 
waiting  until  my  mother  was  silent,  "  with  a  base  return, 
that  feeling  of  mine  is  chilled  and  altered." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  55 

"  Don't,  my  love,  say  that!"  implored  my  mother  very 
piteously.  "  Oh  don't,  Edward!  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it. 
Whatever  I  am,  I  am  affectionate.  I  know  I  am  affection- 
ate. I  wouldn't  say  it,  if  I  wasn't  certain  that  I  am.  Ask 
Peggotty.     I  am  sure  she'll  tell  you  I'm  affectionate." 

*'  There  is  no  extent  of  mere  weakness,  Clara,"  said  Mr. 
Murdstone  in  reply,  "  that  can  have  the  least  weight  with 
me.     You  lose  breath." 

"  Pray  let  us  be  friends,"  said  my  mother.  "  I  couldn't 
live  under  coldness  or  unkindness.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  have 
a  great  many  defects,  I  know,  and  it's  very  good  of  you, 
Edward,  with  your  strength  of  mind,  to  endeavor  to  correct 
them  for  me.  Jane,  I  don't  object  to  anything.  I  should 
be  quite  broken-hearted  if  you  thought  of  leaving — "  My 
mother  was  too  much  overcome  to  go  on. 

"  Jane  Murdstone,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone  to  his  sister, 
"  any  harsh  words  between  us  are,  I  hope,  uncommon.  It 
is  not  my  fault  that  so  unusual  an  occurrence  has  taken 
place  to-night.  I  was  betrayed  into  it  by  another.  Nor  is 
it  your  fault.  You  were  betrayed  into  it  by  another.  But 
let  us  both  try  to  forget  it.  And  as  this,"  he  added,  after 
these  magnanimous  words,  "  is  not  a  fit  scene  for  the  boy — 
David,  go  to  bed!" 

I  could  hardly  find  the  door,  through  the  tears  that  stood 
in  my  eyes.  I  was  so  sorry  for  my  mother's  distress;  but  I 
groped  my  way  out,  and  groped  my  way  up  to  my  room  in 
the  dark,  without  even  having  the  heart  to  say  good  night 
to  Peggotty,  or  to  get  a  candle  from  her.  When  her  com- 
ing up  to  look  for  me,  an  hour  or  so  afterwards,  awoke  me, 
she  said  that  my  mother  had  gone  to  bed  poorly,  and  that 
Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  sitting  alone. 

Going  down  next  morning  rather  earlier  than  usual,  I 
paused  outside  the  parlor  door,  on  hearing  my  mother's 
voice.  She  was  very  earnestly  and  humbly  entreating  Miss 
Murdstone's  pardon,  which  that  lady  granted,  and  a  perfect 
reconciliation  took  place.  I  never  knew  my  mother  after- 
wards to  give  an  opinion  on  any  matter,  without  first  appeal- 
ing to  Miss  Murdstone,  or  without  having  first  ascertained, 
by  some  sure  means,  what  Miss  Murdstone's  opinion  was; 
and  I  never  saw  Miss  Murdstone,  when  out  of  temper  (she 
was  infirm  that  way),  move  her  hand  towards  her  bag  as  if 
she  were  going  to  take  out  the  keys  and  offer  to  resign  them 
to  my  mother,  without  seeing  that  my  mother  was  in  a  ter- 
rible fright. 


56  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

The  gloomy  taint  that  was  in  the  Murdstone  blood,  dark- 
^-^ened  the  Murdstone  religion,  which  was  austere  and  wrath- 
ful. I  have  thought,  since,  that  its  assuming  that  character 
was  a  necessary  consequence  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  firmness, 
which  wouldn't  allow  him  to  let  any  body  off  from  the  ut- 
most weight  of  the  severest  penalties  he  could  find  any  ex- 
cuse for.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  well  remember  the  tremend- 
ous visages  with  which  we  used  to  go  to  church,  and  the 
changed  air  of  the  place.  Again,  the  dreaded  Sunday  comes 
round,  and  I  file  into  the  old  pew  first,  like  a  guarded  cap- 
tive brought  to  a  condemned  service.  Again,  Miss  Murd- 
stone, in  a  black  velvet  gown,  that  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
made  out  of  a  pall,  followed  close  upon  me;  then  my 
mother;  then  her  husband.  There  is  no  Peggotty  now,  as 
in  the  old  time.  Again,  I  listen  to  Miss  Murdstone  mum- 
bling the  responses,  and  emphasizing  all  the  dread  words 
with  a  cruel  relish.  Again,  I  see  her  dark  eyes  roll  round 
the  church  when  she  says  "  miserable  sinners,"  as  if  she 
were  calling  all  the  congregation  names.  Again,  I  catch 
rare  glimpses  of  my  mother,  moving  her  lips  timidly  between 
the  two,  with  one  of  them  muttering  at  each  ear  hke  low 
thunder.  Again,  I  wonder  with  a  sudden  fear  whether  it  is 
likely  that  our  good  old  clergyman  can  be  wrong,  and  Mr. 
and  Miss  Murdstone  right,  and  that  all  the  angels  in  Heaven 
can  be  destroying  angels.  Again,  if  I  move  a  finger  or  re- 
lax a  muscle  of  my  face.  Miss  Murdstone  pokes  me  with  her 
prayer-book,  and  makes  my  side  ache. 

Yes,  and  again,  as  we  walk  home,  I  note  some  neighbors 
looking  at  my  mother,  and  at  me,  and  whispering.  Again, 
as  the  three  go  on  arm-in-arm,  and  I  linger  behind  alone,  I 
follow  some  of  those  looks,  and  wonder  if  my  mother's  step 
be  really  not  so  light  as  I  have  seen  it,  and  if  the  gaiety  of 
her  beauty  be  really  almost  worried  away.  Again,  I  wonder 
if  any  of  the  neighbors  call  to  mind,  as  I  do,  how  we  used  to 
walk  home  together,  she  and  I ;  and  I  wonder  stupidly  about 
that  all  the  dreary  dismal  day. 

There  had  been  some  talk  on  occasions  of  my  going  to  a 
boarding-school.  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  had  originated 
it,  and  my  mother  had  of  course  agreed  with  them.  Noth- 
ing, however,  was  concluded  on  the  subject  yet.  In  the 
meantime,  I  learnt  lessons  at  home. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  those  lessons  !  They  were  presided 
>*    over  nominally  by  my  mother,  but  really  by  Mr.  Murdstone 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  57 

and  his  sister,  who  were  always  present,  and  found  them  a 
favorable  occasion  for  giving  my  mother  lessons  in  that  mis- 
called firmness,  which  was  the  bane  of  both  our  lives.  I  be- 
lieve I  was  kept  at  home  for  that  purpose.  I  had  been  apt 
enough  to  learn,  and  willing  enough,  when  my  mother  and 
I  had  Hved  alone  together.  I  can  faintly  remember  learn- 
ing the  alphabet  at  her  knee.  To  this  day,  when  I  look  up- 
on the  fat  black  letters  in  the  primer,  the  puzzling  novelty 
of  their  shapes,  and  the  easy  good-nature  of  O  and  Q  and 
S,  seem  to  present  themselves  again  before  me  as  they  used 
to  do.  But  they  recall  no  feeling  of  disgust  or  reluctance. 
On  the  contrary,  I  seem  to  have  walked  along  a  path  of 
flowers  as  far  as  the  crocodile-book,  and  to  have  been 
cheered  by  the  gentleness  of  my  mother's  voice  and  manner 
all  the  way.  But  these  solemn  lessons  which  succeeded 
those,  I  remember  as  the  death-blow  at  my  peace,  and  a 
grievous  daily  drudgery  and  misery.  They  were  very  long, 
very  numerous,  very  hard — perfectly  unintelligible,  some  of 
them,  to  me — and  I  was  generally  as  much  bewildered  by 
them  as  I  believe  my  poor  mother  was  herself. 

Let  me  remember  how  it  used  to  be,  and  bring  one  morn- 
ing back  again. 

I  come  into  the  second-best  parlor  after  breakfast  with 
my  books,  and  an  exercise  book,  and  a  slate.  My  mother 
is  ready  for  me  at  her  writing-desk,  but  not  half  so  ready 
as  Mr.  Murdstone  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  window  (though 
he  pretends  to  be  reading  a  book),  or  as  Miss  Murdstone, 
sitting  near  my  mother  stringing  steel  beads.  The  very 
sight  of  these  two  has  such  an  influence  over  me,  that  I  be- 
gin to  feel  the  words  I  have  been  at  infinite  pains  to  get  in- 
to my  head,  all  sliding  away,  and  going  I  don't  know  where. 
I  wonder  where  they  do  go,  by-the-by  ? 

I  hand  the  first  book  to  my  mother.  Perhaps  it  is  a  gram- 
mar, perhaps  a  history,  or  geography.  I  take  a  last  drown- 
ing look  at  the  page  as  I  give  it  into  her  hand,  and  start  off 
aloud  at  a  racing  pace  while  I  have  got  it  fresh.  I  trip  over 
a  word,  Mr.  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  trip  over  another  word. 
Miss  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  redden,  tumble  over  half-a- 
dozen  words,  and  stop.  I  think  my  mother  would  show  me 
the  book  if  she  dared,  but  she  does  not  dare,  and  she  says 
softly: 

"Oh  Davy,  Davy!" 

"  Now,  Clara,"  says  Mr.  Murdstone,  "  be  firm  with  the 


5S  .  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

boy.  Don't  say  '  Oh  Davy,  Davy!'  That's  childish.  He 
knows  his  lesson,  or  he  does  not  know  it." 

"  He  does  not  know  it,"  Miss  Murdstone  interposed  aw- 
fully. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  he  does  not,"  says  my  mother. 

"  Then  you  see,  Clara,"  returns  Miss  Murdstone,  "  you 
should  jiist  give  him  the  book  back,  and  make  him  know  it." 

*'  Yes,  certainly,"  says  my  mother;  "  that's  what  I  intend 
to  do,  my  dear  Jane.  Now  Davy,  try  once  more,  and  don't 
be  stupid." 

I  obey  the  first  clause  of  the  injunction  by  trying  once 
more,  but  am  not  so  successful  with  the  second,  for  I  am 
very  stupid.  I  tumble  down  before  I  get  to  the  old  place, 
at  a  point  where  I  was  all  right  before,  and  stop  to  think. 
But  I  can't  think  about  the  lesson.  I  think  of  the  number 
of  yards  of  net  in  Miss  Murdstone's  cap,  or  of  the  price  of 
Mr.  Murdstone's  dressing-gown,  or  any  such  ridiculous 
problem  that  I  have  no  business  with,  and  don't  want  to 
have  anything  at  all  to  do  with.  Mr.  Murdstone  makes  a 
movement  of  impatience  which  I  have  been  expecting  for  a 
long  time.  Miss  Murdstone  does  the  same.  My  mother 
\  glances  submissively  at  them,  shuts  the  book,  and  lays  it  by 
-^  as  an  arrear  to  be  worked  out  when  my  other  tasks  are 
done. 

There  is  a  pile  of  these  arrears  very  soon,  and  it  swells 
like  a  rolling  snowball.  The  bigger  it  gets  the  more  stupid 
/  get.  The  case  is  so  hopeless,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  wallow- 
ing in  such  a  bog  of  nonsense,  that  I  give  up  all  idea  of  get- 
ting out,  and  abandon  myself  to  my  fate.  The  despairing 
way  in  which  my  mother  and  I  look  at  each  other,  as  I 
blunder  on,  is  truly  melancholy.  But  the  greatest  effect  in 
these  miserable  lessons  is  when  my  mother  (thinking  nobody 
is  observing  her)  tries  to  give  me  the  cue  by  the  motion  of 
her  lips.  At  that  instant,  Miss  Murdstone,  who  has  been 
lying  in  wait  for  nothing  else  all  along,  says  in  a  deep  warn- 
ing voice: 

"  Clara!" 

My  mother  starts,  colors,  and  smiles  faintly.  Mr.  Murd- 
stone comes  out  of  his  chair,  takes  the  book,  throws  it  at  me 
or  boxes  my  ears  with  it,  and  turns  me  out  of  the  room  by 
the  shoulders. 

Even  when  the  lessons  are  done,  the  worst  ^  is  yet  to  hap- 
pen, in  the  shape  of  an  appalling  sum.     This  is  invented  for 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD:  59 

me,  and  delivered  to  me  orally  by  Mr.  Murdstone,  and  be- 
gins, "  If  I  go  into  a  cheesemonger's  shop,  and  buy  five 
thousand  double-Gloucester  cheeses  at  fourpence-halfpenny 
each,  present  payment  " — at  which  I  see  Miss  Murdstone 
secretly  overjoyed.  I  pore  over  these  cheeses  without  any 
result  or  enlightenment  until  dinner  time;  when,  having 
made  a  mulatto  of  myself  by  getting  the  dirt  of  the  slate 
into  the  pores  of  my  skin,  I  have  a  slice  of  bread  to  help  me 
out  with  the  cheeses,  and  am  considered  in  disgrace  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

It  seems  to  me,  at  this  dist?.nce  of  time,  as  if  my  unfortun^ 
ate  studies  generally  took  this  course.  I  could  have  done 
very  well  if  I  had  been  without  the  Murdstones;  but  the 
influence  of  the  Murdstones  upon  me  was  like  the  fascina- 
tion of  two  snakes  on  a  wretched  young  bird.  Even  when 
I  did  get  through  the  morning  with  tolerable  credit,  there 
was  not  much  gained  but  dinner;  for  Miss  Murdstone  never 
could  endure  to  see  me  untasked,  and  if  I  rashly  made  any 
show  of  being  unemployed,  called  her  brother's  attention  to 
me  by  saying,  "  Clara,  my  dear,  there's  nothing  like  work — • 
give  your  boy  an  exercise;"  which  caused  me  to  be  clapped 
down  to  some  new  labor  there  and  then.  As  to  any  recrea- 
tion with  other  children  of  my  age,  I  had  very  little  of  that; 
for  the  gloomy  theology  of  the  Murdstones  made  all  chil- 
dren out  to  be  a  swarm  of  little  vipers  (though  there  was  a 
child  once  set  in  the  midst  of  the  Disciples),  and  held  that 
they  contaminated  one  another. 

The  natural  result  of  this  treatment,"  continued,  I  sup- 
pose, for  some  six  months,  was  to  make  me  sullen,  dull  and 
dogged.  I  was  not  made  the  less  so,  by  my  sense  of  being 
daily  more  and  more  shut  out  and  alienated  from  my 
mother.  I  believe  I  should  have  been  almost  stupefied  but 
for  one  circumstance. 

It  was  this.  My  father  had  left  a  small  collection  of 
books  in  a  little  room  up  stairs,  to  which  I  had  access  (for 
it  joined  my  own)  and  which  nobody  else  in  our  house  ever 
troubled.  From  that  blessed  little  room,  Roderick  Random, 
Peregrine  Pickle,  Humphrey  Clinker,  Tom  Jones,  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Don  Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Robinson 
Crusoe,  came  out,  a  glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company. 
They  kept  alive  my  fancy,  and  my  hope  of  something  be- 
yond that  place  and  time, — they,  and  the  Arabian  Nights, 
and  the  Tales  of  the  Genii, — and  did  me  no  harm;  for 


<5o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

whatever  harm  was  in  some  of  them  was  not  there  for  me; 
/  knew  nothing  of  it.  It  is  astonishing  to  me  now,  how  I 
found  time,  in  the  midst  of  my  porings  and  blunderings 
over  heavier  themes,  to  read  those  books  as  I  did.  It  is 
curious  to  me  how  I  could  ever  have  consoled  myself  under 
my  small  troubles  (which  were  great  troubles  to  me),  by  im- 
personating my  favorite  characters  in  them — as  I  did — and 
by  putting  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  into  all  the  bad  ones — • 
which  I  did  too.  I  have  been  Tom  Jones  (a  child's  Tom 
Jones,  a  harmless  creature)  for  a  week  together.  I  have 
sustained  my  own  idea  of  Roderick  Random  for  a  month  at 
a  stretch,  I  verily  believe.  I  had  a  greedy  relish  for  a  few 
volumes  of  Voyages  and  Travels — I  forget  what,  now — that 
were  on  those  shelves;  and  for  days  and  days  I  can  remem- 
ber to  have  gone  about  my  region  of  our  house,  armed  with 
the  centre-piece  of  an  old  set  of  boot-trees — the  perfect  re- 
alization of  Captain  Somebody,  of  the  Royal  British  Navy, 
in  danger  of  being  beset  by  savages,  and  resolved  to  sell  his 
life  at  a  great  price.  The  Captain  never  lost  dignity,  from 
having  his  ears  boxed  with  the  Latin  Grammar.  I  did;  but 
the  Captain  was  a  Captain  and  a  hero,  in  despite  of  all  the 
grammars  of  all  the  languages  in  the  world,  dead  or  alive. 

This  was  my  only  and  my  constant  comfort.  When  I 
think  of  it,  the  picture  always  rises  in  my  mind,  of  a  summer 
evening,  the  boys  at  play  in  the  churchyard,  and  I  sitting 
on  my  bed,  reading  as  if  for  life.  Every  barn  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, every  stone  in  the  church,  and  every  foot  in  the 
churchyard,  had  some  association  of  its  own,  in  my  mind, 
connected  with  these  books,  and  stood  for  some  locality 
made,  famous  in  them.  I  have  seen  Tom  Pipes  go  climbing 
up  the  church- steeple;  I  have  watched  Strap,  with  the 
knapsack  on  his  back,  stopping  to  rest  himself  upon  the 
wicket-gate;  and  I  know  that  Commodore  Trunnion  held 
that  club  with  Mr.  Pickle,  in  the  parlor  of  our  little  village 
alehouse. 

The  reader  now  understands  as  well  as  I  do,  what  I  was 
when  I  came  to  that  point  of  my  youthful  history  to  which 
I  am  now  coming  again. 

One  morning  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  with  my  books, 
I  found  my  mother  looking  anxious,  Miss  Murdstone  look- 
ing firm,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  binding  something  round  the 
bottom  of  a  cane — a  lithe  and  limber  cane,  which  he  left  off 
binding  when  I  came  in,  and  poised  and  switched  in  the  air.^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  6t 

"  I  tell  you,  Clara,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  "  I  have  been 
often  flogged  myself." 

"  To  be  sure;  of  course,"  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,"  faltered  my  mother,  meekly. 
*'  But — but  do  you  think  it  did  Edward  good?" 

*'  Do  you  think  it  did  Edward  harm,  Clara?"  asked  Mr. 
Murdstone,  gravely. 

"  That's  the  point!"  said  his  sister. 

To  this  my  mother  returned  "  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane," 
and  said  no  more. 

I  felt  apprehensive  that  I  was  personally  interested  in  this 
dialogue,  and  sought  Mr.  Murdstone's  eye  as  it  lighted  on 
mine. 

"  Now,  David,"  he  said — and  I  saw  that  cast  again,  as  he 
said  it — "  you  must  be  far  more  careful  to-day  than  usual." 
He  gave  the  cane  another  poise,  and  another  switch;  and 
having  finished  his  preparation  of  it,  laid  it  down  beside 
him,  with  an  expressive  look,  and  took  up  his  book. 

This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  presence  of  mind,  as  a 
beginning.  I  felt  the  words  of  my  lesson  slipping  off,  not 
one  by  one,  or  line  by  line,  but  by  the  entire  page.  I  tried 
to  lay  hold  of  them;  but  they  seemed,  if  I  may  so  express  it, 
to  have  put  skates  on,  and  to  skim  away  from  me  with  a 
smoothness  there  was  no  checking. 

We  began  badly,  and  went  on  worse.  I  had  come  in,  with 
an  idea  of  distinguishing  myself  rather,  conceiving  that  I 
was  very  well , prepared;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  quite  a 
mistake.  Book  after  book  was  added  to  the  heap  of  fail- 
ures. Miss  Murdstone  being  firmly  watchful  of  us  all  the 
time.  And  when  we  came  at  last  to  the  five  thousand 
cheeses  (canes  he  made  it  that  day,  I  remember),  my  mother 
burst  out  crying. 

"  Clara!"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  voice. 

"  I  am  not  quite  well,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think,"  said  my 
mother. 

I  saw  him  wink,  solemnly,  at  his  sister,  as  he  rose  and 
said,  taking  up  the  cane, 

"  Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear,  with 
perfect  firmness,  the  worry  and  torment  that  David  has  oc- 
casioned her  to-day.  That  would  be  stoical.  Clara  is 
greatly  strengthened  and  improved,  but  we  can  hardly  ex- 
pect so  much  from  her.  David,  you  and  I  will  go  up  stairs, 
boy." 


62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

As  he  took  me  out  at  the  door,  my  mother  ran  towards 
us.  Miss  Murdstone  said,  "  Clara!  are  you  a  perfect  fool?" 
and  interfered.  I  sa^  my  mother  stop  her  ears  then,  and  I 
heard  her  crying. 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room  slowly  and  gravely — I  am 
certain  he  had  a  delight  in  that  formal  parade  of  executing 
iustice — and  when  we  got  there,  suddenly  twisted  my  head 
under  his  arm. 

•'  Mr.  Murdstone!  Sir!"  I  cried  to  him.  "  Don't.  Pray 
don't  beat  me!  I  have  tried  to  learn,  sir,  but  I  can't  learn 
while  you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  by.     I  can't  indeed!" 

"  Can't  you,  indeed,  David  ?"  he  said.     "  We'll  try  that." 

He  had  my  head  as  in  a  vice,  but  I  twined  round  him 
somehow,  and  stopped  him  for  a  moment,  entreating  him 
not  to  beat  me.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  stopped 
him,  for  he  cut  me  heavily  an  instant  afterwards,  and  in  the 
same  instant  I  caught  the  hand  with  which  he  held  me  in 
my  mouth,  between  my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through.  It  sets 
my  teeth  on  edge  to  think  of  it. 

He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he  would  have  beaten  me  to  death. 
Above  all  the  noise  we  made,  I  heard  them  running  up  the 
stairs,  and  crying  out — I  heard  my  mother  crying  out — 
and  Peggotty.  Then  he  was  gone;  and  the  door  was  locked 
outside;  and  I  was  lying  fevered,  and  hot,  and  torn,  and 
raging  in  my  puny  way,  upon  the  floor. 

How  well  I  recollect,  when  I  became  quiet,  what  an  un- 
natural stillness  seemed  to  reign  through  the  whole  house! 
How  well  I  remember,  when  my  smart  and  passion  began  to 
cool,  how  wicked  I  began  to  feel! 

I  sat  listening  for  a  long  while,  but  there  was  not  a 
sound.  I  crawled  up  from  the  floor,  and  saw  my  face 
4n  the  glass,  so  swollen,  red,  and  ugly  that  it  almost  fright- 
ened me.  My  stripes  were  sore  and  stiff,  and  made  me  cry 
afresh,  when  I  moved;  but  they  were  nothing  to  the  guilt  I 
felt.  It  lay  heavier  on  my  breast  than  if  I  had  been  a  most 
atrocious  criminal,  I  dare  say. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark,  and  I  had  shut  the  window 
(I  had  been  lying,  for  the  most  part,  with  my  head  upon  the 
sill,  by  turns  crying,  dozing,  and  looking  listlessly  out), 
when  the  key  was  turned,  and  Miss  Murdstone  came  in  with 
some  bread  and  meat,  and  milk.  These  she  put  down  upon 
the  table  without  a  word,  glaring  at  me  the  while  with  ex- 
emplary firmness,  and  then  retired,  locking  the  door  aft«r 
her. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  6$ 

Long  after  it  was  dark  I  sat  there,  wondering  whether 
anybody  else  would  come.  When  this  appeared  improbable 
for  that  night,  I  undressed,  and  went  to  bed;  and,  there,  I 
began  to  wonder  fearfully  what  would  be  done  to  me. 
Whether  it  was  a  criminal  act  that  I  had  committed  ? 
Whether  I  should  be  taken  into  custody,  and  sent  to  prison? 
Whether  I  was  at  all  in  danger  of  being  hanged? 

I  never  shall  forget  the  waking,  next  morning;  the  being 
cheerful  and  fresh  for  the  first  moment,  and  then  the  being 
weighed  down  by  the  stale  and  dismal  oppression  of  re- 
membrance. Miss  Murdstone  re-appeared  before  I  was  out 
of  bed;  told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  I  was  free  to  walk 
in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour  and  no  longer;  and  retired, 
leaving  the  door  open,  that  I  might  avail  myself  of  that 
permission. 

I  did  so,  and'  did  so  every  morning  of  my  imprisonment, 
which  lasted  five  days.  If  I  could  have  seen  my  mother 
alone,  I  should  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  to  her  and 
besought  her  forgiveness;  but  I  saw  no  one.  Miss  Murd- 
stone excepted,  during  the  whole  time — except  at  evening 
prayers  in  the  parlor;  to  which  I  was  escorted  by  Miss 
Murdstone  after  every  body  else  was  placed;  where  I  was 
stationed,  a  young  outlaw,  all  alone  by  myself  near  the 
door;  and  whence  I  was  solemnly  conducted  by  my  jailor, 
before  any  one  arose  from  the  devotional  posture.  I  only 
observed  that  my  mother  was  as  far  off  from  me  as  she 
could  be,  and  kept  her  face  another  way  so  that  I  never  saw 
it;  and  that  Mr.  Murdstone's  hand  was  bound  up  in  a  large 
linen  wrapper. 

The  length  of  those  five  days  I  can  convey  no  idea  of  to 
any  one.  They  occupy  the  place  of  years  in  my  remem- 
brance. The  way  in  which  I  listened  to  all  the  incidents  of 
the  house  that  made  themselves  audible  to  me;  the  ringing 
of  bells,  the  opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  the  mur- 
muring of  voices,  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs;  to  any  laugh- 
ing, whistling,  or  singing,  outside,  which  seemed  more  dis- 
mal than  anything  else  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  disgrace — 
the  uncertain  pace  of  the  hours,  especially  at  night,  when  I 
would  wake,  thinking  it  was  morning,  and  find  that  the 
family  were  not  yet  gone  to  bed,  and  that  all  the  length  of 
the  night  had  yet  to  come — the  depressed  dreams  and  night- 
mares I  had — the  return  of  day,  noon,  afternoon,  evening, 
when   the  boys  played  in  the  churchyard,  and  I  watched 


^4  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

them  from  a  distance  within  the  room,  being  ashamed  to 
show  myself  at  the  window  lest  they  should  know  I  was  a 
prisoner — the  strange  sensation  of  never  hearing  myself 
speak — the  fleeting  intervals  of  something  like  cheerfulness, 
which  came  with  eating  and  drinking,  and  went  away  with  it 
— the  setting  in  of  rain  one  evening,  with  a  fresh  smell,  and 
its  coming  down  faster  and  faster  between  me  and  the 
church,  until  it  and  the  gathering  night  seemed  to  quench 
me  in  gloom  and  fear,  and  remorse — all  this  appears  to  have 
gone  round  and  round  for  years  instead  of  days,  it  is  so 
vividly  and  strongly  stamped  on  my  remembrance. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  restraint,  I  was  awakened  by 
hearing  my  own  name  spoken  in  a  whisper.  I  started  up  in 
bed,  and  putting  out  my  arms  in  the  dark,  said: 

"  Is  that  you,  Peggotty  ?" 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  but  presently  I  heard  my 
name  again,  in  a  tone  so  very  mysterious  and  awful,  that  I 
think  I  should  have  gone  into  a  fit,  if  it  had  not  occurred  to 
me  that  it  must  have  come  through  the  keyhole. 

I  groped  my  way  to  the  door,  and  putting  my  own  lips  to 
the  keyhole,  whispered: 

"  Is  that  you,  Peggotty,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  my  own  precious  Davy,"  she  replied.  "  Be  as  soft 
as  a  mouse,  or  the  Cat  '11  hear  us." 

I  understood  this  to  mean  Miss  Murdstone,  and  was  sen- 
sible of  the  urgency  of  the  case:  her  room  being  close  by. 

"  How's  mamma,  dear  Peggotty  ?  Is  she  very  angry  with 
me?" 

I  could  hear  Peggotty  crying  softly  on  her  side  of  the 
keyhole,  as  I  was  doing  on  mine,  before  she  answered.  "  No. 
Not  very." 

"  What  is  going  to  be  done  with  me,  Peggotty  dear?  Do 
you  know  ?" 

"  School.  Near  London,"  was  Peggotty's  answer.  I  was 
obliged  to  get  her  to  repeat  it,  for  she  spoke  it  the  first 
time  quite  down  my  throat,  in  consequence  of  my  having 
forgotten  to  take  my  mouth  away  from  the  keyhole  and  put 
my  ear  there;  and  though  her  words  tickled  me  a  good  deal, 
I  didn't  hear  them. 

"  When,  Peggotty  ?" 

"  To-morrow." 

"  Is  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Murdstone  took  the  clothes 


DAVID   COPPKRFIELD.  65 

out  of  my  drawers  ?"  which   she   had  done,  though  I  have 
forgotten  to  mention  it. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "  Box." 

"  Shan't  I  see  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "  Morning." 

Then  Peggotty  fitted  her  moulh  close  to  the  keyhole,  and 
delivered  these  words  through  it  with  as  much  feeling  and 
earnestness  as  a  keyhole  has  ever  been  the  medium  of  com- 
municating, I  vv^ll  venture  to  assert:  shooting  in  each  little 
broken  sentence  in  a  convulsive  little  burst  of  its  own. 

"  Davy,  dear.  If  I  ain't  ben  azackly  as  intimate  with  you. 
Lately,  as  I  used  to  be.  It  ain't  becase  I  don't  love  you. 
Just  as  well  and  more,  my  pretty  poppet.  It's  because  I 
thought  it  better  for  you.  And  for  some  one  else  besides. 
Davy,  my  darling,  are  you  listening  ?     Can  you  hear  ?" 

"Ye — ye — ye — yes,  Peggotty  !"  I  sobbed. 

"  My  own  !"  said  Peggotty,  with  infinite  compassion. 
"  What  I  want  to  say,  is.  That  you  must  never  forget  me. 
For  I'll  never  forget  you.  And  I'll  take  as  much  care  of 
your  mamma,  Davy.  As  ever  I  took  of  you.  And  I  won't 
leave  her.  The  day  may  come  when  she'll  be  glad  to  lay 
her  poor  head.  On  her  stupid,  cross  old  Peggotty's  arm 
again.  And  I'll  write  to  you,  my  dear.  Though  I  ain't  no 
scholar.  And  I'll — I'll — "  Peggotty  fell  to  kissing  the 
keyhole,  as  she  couldn't  kiss  me. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Peggotty!"  said  I.  "Oh,  thank  you! 
Thank  you!  Will  you  promise  me  one  thing,  Peggotty? 
Will  you  write  and  tell  Mr.  Peggotty  and  little  Em'ly  and 
Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham,  that  I  am  not  so  bad  as  they 
might  suppose,  and  that  I  sent  'em  all  my  love — especially 
to  little  Em'ly?     Will  you,  if  you  please,  Peggotty?" 

The  kind  soul  promised,  and  we  both  of  us  kissed  the 
keyhole  with  the  greatest  affection — I  patted  it  with  my 
hand,  I  recollect,  as  if  it  had  been  her  honest  face — and 
parted.  From  that  night  there  grew  up  in  my  breast,  a  feel- 
ing for  Peggotty,  which  I  cannot  very  well  define.  She  did 
not  replace  my  mother;  no  one  could  do  that;  but  she 
came  into  a  vacancy  in  my  heart,  which  closed  upon  her, 
and  I  felt  towards  her  something  I  have  never  felt  for  any 
other  human  being.  It  was  a  sort  of  comical  affection  too; 
and  yet  if  she  had  died,  I  cannot  think  what  I  should  have 
done,  or  how  I  should  have  acted  out  the  tragedy  it  would 
have  been  to  me. 


66  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Murdstone  appeared  as  usual,  and 
told  me  I  was  going  to  school;  which  was  not  altogether 
such  news  to  me  as  she  supposed.  She  also  informed  me 
that  when  I  was  dressed,  I  was  to  come  down  stairs  into  the 
parlor,  and  have  my  breakfast.  There  I  found  my  mother, 
very  pale  and  with  red  eyes:  into  whose  arms  I  ran,  and 
begged  her  pardon  from  my  suffering  soul. 

"Oh,  Davy!"  she  said.  "That  you  could  hurt  any  one 
I  love!  Try  to  be  better,  pray  to  be  better!  I  forgive  you; 
but  I  am  so  grieved,  Davy,  that  you  should  have  such  bad 
passions  in  your  heart." 

They  had  persuaded  her  I  was  a  wicked  fellow,  and  she 
was  more  sorry  for  that  than  for  my  going  away.  I  felt  it 
sorely.  I  tried  to  eat  my  parting  breakfast,  but  my  tears 
dropped  upon  my  bread  and  butter,  and  trickled  into  my 
tea.  I  saw  my  mother  look  at  me  sometimes,  and  then 
glance  at  the  watchful  Miss  Murdstone,  and  then  look  down, 
or  look  away. 

"  Master  Copperfield's  box  there!"  said  Miss  Murdstone, 
when  wheels  were  heard  at  the  gate. 

I  looked  for  Peggotty,  but  it  was  not  she;  neither  she  nor 
Mr.  Murdstone  appeared.  My  former  acquaintance,  the 
carrier,  was  at  the  door;  the  box  was  taken  out  to  his  cart, 
and  lifted  in. 

"  Clara  !"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  note. 

"  Ready,  my  dear  Jane,"  returned  my  mother.  "  Good 
bye,  Davy.  You  are  going  for  your  own  good.  Good  bye, 
my  child.  You  will  come  home  in  the  holidays,  and  be  a 
better  boy." 

"  Clara  !"  Miss  Murdstone  repeated. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,"  replied  my  mother,  who  was 
holding  me.    "  I  forgive  you,  my  dear  boy.     God  bless  you!" 

"  Clara  !"  Miss  Murdstone  repeated. 

Miss  Murdstone  was  good  enough  to  take  me  out  to  the 
cart,  and  to  say  on  the  way  that  she  hoped  I  would  repent 
before  I  came  to  a  bad  end;  and  then  I  got  into  the 
cart,  and  the  lazy  horse  walked  off  with  it 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  67 

CHAPTER  V. 

I  AM  SENT  AWAV  FROM  HOME. 

We  might  have  gone  about  half  a  mile,  and  my  pocket- 
handkerchief  was  quite  wet  through,  when  the  carrier 
stopped  short. 

Looking  out  to  ascertain  what  for,  I  saw,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, Peggotty  burst  from  a  hedge  and  climb  into  the 
cart.  She  took  me  in  both  her  arms,  and  squeezed  me  to 
her  stays  uni.il  the  pressure  on  my  nose  was  extremely  pain- 
ful, though  I  never  thought  of  that  till  afterwards  when  I 
found  it  very  tender.  Not  a  single  word  did  Peggotty 
speak.  Releasing  one  of  her  arms,  she  put  it  down  in  hei 
pocket  to  the  elbow,  and  brought  out  some  paper-bags  of 
cakes  which  she  crammed  into  my  pockets,  and  a  purse 
which  she  put  into  my  hand,  but  not  one  word  did  she  say. 
After  another  and  a  final  squeeze  with  both  arms,  she 
got  down  from  the  cart  and  ran  away  ;  and,  my  belief  is,  and 
has  always  been,  without  a  solitary  button  on  her  gown,  I 
picked  up  one,  of  several  that  were  rolling  about,  and 
treasured  it  as  a  keepsake  for  a  long  time. 

The  carrier  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  inquire  if  she  were  com- 
ing back.  I  shook  my  head,  and  said  I  thought  not. 
"  Then  come  up,"  said  the  carrier  to  the  lazy  horse  ;  who 
came  up  accordingly. 

Having  by  this  time  cried  as  much  as  I  possibly  could,  I 
began  to  think  it  was  of  no  use  crying  any  more,  especially 
as  neither  Roderick  Random,  nor  that  Captain  in  the  Royal 
British  Navy,  had  ever  cried,  that  I  could  remember,  in  try- 
ing situations.  The  carrier,  seeing  me  in  this  resolution, 
proposed  that  my  pocket-handkerchief  should  be  spread 
upon  the  horse's  back  to  dry.  I  thanked  him,  and  assented  ; 
and  particularly  small  it  looked  under  those  circumstances. 

I  had  now  leisure  to  examine  the  purse.  It  was  a  stiff 
leather  purse,  with  a  snap,  and  had  three  bright  shillings  in 
it,  which  Peggotty  had  evidently  polished  up  with  whiten- 
ing, for  my  greater  deliglit.  But  its  most  precious  contents 
were  two  half-crowns  folded  together  in  a  bit  of  paper,  on 
which  was  written,  in  my  mother's  hand,  "  For  Davy.  With 
my  love."  I  was  so  overcome  by  this,  that  I  asked  the  car- 
rier to  be  so  good  as  to  reach  me  my  pocket-handkerchief 
again  ;  but  he  said  he  thought  1  had  better  do  without  it ; 


68  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

and  I  thought  I  really  had  ;  so  I  wiped  my  eyes  on  my 
sleeve  and  stopped  myself. 

For  good,  too;  though  in  consequence  of  my  previous 
emotions,  I  was  still  occasionally  seized  with  a  stormy  sob. 
After  we  had  jogged  on  for  some  little  time,  I  asked  the 
carrier  if  he  was  going  all  the  way. 

"  All  the  way  where  ?"  enquired  the  carrier. 

"  There/'  I  said. 

"  Where's  there  ?"  enquired  the  carrier. 

*'  Near  London  ?"  I  said. 

"  Why  that  horse,"  said  the  carrier,  jerking  the  rein  to 
point  him  out,  "  would  be  deader  than  pork  before  he  got 
over  half  the  ground." 

"  Are  you  only  going  to  Yarmouth  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That's  about  it,"  said  the  carrier.  ^'  And  there  I  shall 
take  you  to  the  stage-cutch,  and  the  stage-cutch  that'll  take 
you  to— wherever  it  is." 

As  this  was  a  great  deal  for  the  carrier  (whose  name  was 
V,  Mr.  Barkis)  to  say — he  being,  as  I  observed  in  the  former 
^chapter,  of  a  phlegmatic  temperament,  and  not  at  all  con- 
versational— I  offered  him  a  cake  as  a  mark  of  attention, 
which  he  ate  at  one  gulp,  exactly  like  an  elephant,  and 
which  made  no  more  impression  on  his  big  face  than  it 
would  have  done  on  an  elephant's. 

"  Did  s/ie  make  'em  now  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  always  lean- 
ing forward,  in  his  slouching  way,  on  the  footboard  of  the 
cart  with  an  arm  on  each  knee. 

"  Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis.     "  Her." 

"  Yes.  She  makes  all  our  pastry,  and  does  all  our  cook- 
ing." 

*'  Do  she  though  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  made  up  his  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  but  he  didn't 
whistle.  He  sat  looking  at  the  horse's  ears,  as  if  he  saw 
something  new  there  ;  and  sat  so,  for  a  considerable  time. 
By-and-by,  he  said: 

"  No  sweethearts,  I  b'lieve  ?" 

"  Sweetmeats  did  you  say,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  For  I  thought  he 
wanted  something  else  to  eat,  and  had  pointedly  alluded  to 
that  description  of  refreshment. 

"  Hearts,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.  "Sweet  hearts;  no  person 
walks  with  her  !" 

"With  Peggotty?" 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  69 

"Ah!"  he  said.     "Her." 

"  Oh  no.     She  never  had  a  sweetheart." 

"Didn't  she  though  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and  again  he 
didn't  whistle,  but  sat  looking  at  the  horse's  ears. 

"  So  she  makes,"  said  Mr.  Barkis  after  a  long  interval  of 
reflection,  "  all  the  apple  parsties,  and  does  all  the  cooking, 
do  she  ?" 

I  replied  that  such  was  the  fact. 

"Well.  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.  "P'raps 
you  might  be  writin'  to  her  ?" 

"  I  shall  certainly  write  to  her,"  I  rejoined. 

"  Ah!"  he  said,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  towards  me.  "  Well! 
If  you  was  writin*  to  her,  p'raps  you'd  recollect  to  say  that 
Barkis  was  willin'  ;  would  you." 

"  That  Barkis  is  willing,"  I  repeated,  innocently.  "  Is 
that  all  the  message  ?  " 

"Ye-es,"he  said,  considering.    "Ye-s.    Barkis  is  willin'." 

"  But  you  will  be  at  Blunderstone  again  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Barkis,"  I  said,  faltering  a  little  at  the  idea  of  my  being  far 
away  from  it  then,  "  and  could  give  your  own  message  so 
much  better." 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however,  with  a  jerk  of 
his  head,  and  once  more  confirmed  his  previous  request  by 
saying,  with  profound  gravity,  "  Barkis  is  willin'.  That's  the 
message,"  I  readily  undertook  its  transmission.  While  I 
was  waiting  for  the  coach  in  the  hotel  at  Yarmouth  that 
very  afternoon,  I  procured  a  sheet  of  paper  and  an  ink- 
stand, and  wrote  a  note  to  Peggotty  which  ran  thus:  "  My 
dear  Peggotty.  I  have  come  here  safe.  Barkis  is  willing. 
My  love  to  mamma.  Yours  affectionately.  P.  S.  He  says 
he  particularly  Avants  you  to  know — Barkis  is  willifig.'' 

When  I  had  taken  this  commission  on  myself,  prospec- 
tively, Mr.  Barkis  relapsed  into  perfect  silence;  and  I,  feel- 
ing quite  worn  out  by  all  that  had  happened  lately,  lay  down 
on  a  sack  in  the  cart  and  fell  asleep.  I  slept  soundly  until 
we  got  to  Yarmouth;  which  was  so  entirely  new  and  strange 
to  me  in  the  inn  yard  to  which  we  drove,  that  I  at  once 
abandoned  a  latent  hope  I  had  had  of  meeting  with  some  of 
Mr.  Peggotty's  family  there,  perhaps  even  with  little  Em'ly 
herself. 

The  coach  was  in  the  yard,  shining  very  much  all  over, 
but  without  any  horses  tr  ^^  a^  vet;  and  it  looked  in  that 


70  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

state  as  if  nothing  was  more  unlikely  than  its  ever  going  to 
London.  I  was  thinking  this,  and  wondering  what  would 
ultimately  become  of  my  box,  which  Mr.  Barkis  had  put 
down  on  the  yard-pavement  bv  the  pole  (he  having  driven 
up  the  yard  to  turn  his  cart),  and  also  what  would  ulti- 
mately become  of  me,  when  a  lady  looked  out  of  a  bow- 
window  where  some  fowls  and  joints  of  meat  were  hanging 
up,  and  said: 

"  Is  that  the  little  gentleman  from  Blunderstone.?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  I  said! 

"  What  name?"  enquired  the  lady. 

"  Copperfield,  ma'am,"  I  said. 

"  That  won't  do,"  returned  the  lady.  "  Nobody's  dinner  is 
paid  for  here,  in  that  name." 

"  Is  it  Murdstone,  ma'am?"  I  said. 

"  If  you're  Master  Murdstone,"  said  the  lady,  "  why  do 
you  go  and  give  another  name  first?" 

I  explained  to  the  lady  how  it  was,  who  then  rang  a  bell, 
and  called  out,  "  William!  show  the  coffee-room!"  Upon 
which  a  waiter  came  running  out  of  a  kitchen  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  yard,  to  show  it,  and  seemed  a  great  deal 
surprised  when  he  found  he  was  only  to  show  it  to  me. 

It  was  a  large  long  room  with  some  large  maps  in  it.  I 
doubt  if  I  could  have  felt  much  stranger  if  the  maps  had 
been  real  foreign  countries,  and  I  cast  away  in  the  middle 
of  them.  I  felt  it  was  taking  a  liberty  to  sit  down,  with  my 
cap  in  my  hand,  on  the  corner  of  the  chair  nearest  the  door; 
and  when  the  waiter  laid  a  cloth  on  purpose  for  me,  and  put 
a  set  of  casters  on  it,  I  think  I  must  have  turned  red  all  over 
with  modesty. 

He  brought  me  some  chops,  and  vegetables,  and  took  the 
covers  off  in  such  a  bouncing  manner  that  I  was  afraid  I 
must  have  given  him  some  offence.  But  he  greatly  relieved 
my  mind  by  putting  a  chair  for  me  at  the  table,  and  saying 
very  affably,  "Now  six-foot,  come  on!" 

I  thanked  him,  and  took  my  seat  at  the  board;  but  found 
it  extremely  difficult  to  handle  my  knife  and  fork  with  any- 
thing like  dexterity,  or  to  avoid  splashing  myself  with  the 
gravy,  while  he  was  standing  opposite,  staring  so  hard,  and 
making  me  blush  in  the  most  dreadful  manner  every  time  I 
caught  his  eye.  After  watching  me  into  the  second  chop, 
he  said: 

"  There's  half  a  pint  of  ale  for  you.  Will  you  have  it 
now?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  71 

I  thanked  him  and  said  yes.  Upon  which  he  poured  it 
out  of  a  jug  into  a  large  tumbler,  and  held  it  up  against  the 
light,  and  made  it  look  beautiful. 

"  My  eye!"  he  said.     "  It  seems  a  good  deal,  don't  it?" 

"  It  does  seem  a  good  deal,"  I  answered  with  a  smile. 
For  it  was  quite  delightful  to  me,  to  find  him  so  pleasant. 
He  was  a  twinkle-eyed,  pimple-faced  man,  with  his  hair 
standing  upright  all  over  his  head;  and  as  he  stood  with 
one  arm  a-kimbo,  holding  up  the  glass  to  the  light  with  the 
other  hand,  he  looked  quite  friendly. 

"  There  was  a  gentleman  here  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  a 
stout  gentleman,  by  the  name  of  Topsawyer — perhaps  you 
know  him!" 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  think—" 

"  In  breeches  and  gaiters,  broad-brimmed  hat,  grey  coat, 
speckled  choaker,"  said  the  waiter. 

"  No,"  I  said  bashfully,  ''  1  haven't  the  pleasure—" 

"  He  came  in  here,"  said  the  waiter,  looking  at  the  light 
through  the  tumbler,  "  ordered  a  glass  of  this  ale — would 
order  it — I  told  him  not — drank  it,  and  fell  dead.  It  was 
too  old  for  him.     It  oughtn't  to  be  drawn;  that's  the  fact." 

I  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  of  this  melancholy  ac- 
cident, and  said  I  thought  I  had  better  have  some  water. 

"  Why  you  see,"  said  the  waiter,  still  looking  at  the  light 
through  the  tumbler,  with  one  of  his  eyes  shut  up,  "  our 
people  don't  like  things  being  ordered  and  left.  It  offends 
'em.  But  /'//  drink  it,  if  you  like.  I'm  used  to  it,  and  use 
is  everything.  I  don't  think  it'll  hurt  me  if  I  throw  my 
head  back,  and  take  it  off  quick.     Shall  I?" 

I  replied  that  he  would  much  oblige  me  by  drinking  it,  if 
he  thought  he  could  do  it  safely,  but  by  no  means  other- 
wise. When  he  did  throw  his  head  back  and  take  it  off 
quick,  I  had  a  horrible  fear,  I  confess,  of  seeing  him  meet 
the  fate  of  the  lamented  Mr.  Topsawyer,  and  fall  lifeless  on 
the  carpet.  But  it  didn't  hurt  him.  On  the  contrary,  I 
thought  he  seemed  the  fresher  for  it. 

"  What  have  we  got  here?"  he  said,  putting  a  fork  into  my 
dish.     "  Not  chops!" 

"  Chops,"  I  said. 

"  Lord  bless  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  didn't  know  they 
were  chops.  Why,  a  chop's  the  very  thing  to  take  off  the 
bad  effects  of  that  beer!     Ain't  it  lucky?" 

So  he  took  a  chop  by  the  bone  in  one  hand,  and  apotatoe 


72  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  the  other  and  ate  away  with  a  very  good  appetite,  to  my 
extreme  satisfaction.  He  afterwards  took  another  chop  and 
another  potatoe;  and  after  that,  another  chop  and  another 
potatoe.  When  we  had  done,  he  brought  me  a  pudding, 
and  having  set  it  before  me,  seemed  to  ruminate,  and  to  be- 
come absent  in  his  mind  for  some  moments. 

"  How's  the  pie?"  he  said,  rousing  himself. 

"  It's  a  pudding,"  I  made  answer. 

"Pudding?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  bless  me,  so  it  is! 
What!"  looking  at  it  nearer.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  it's 
a  batter  pudding!" 

"Yes,  it  is  indeed." 

"  Why,  a  batter  pudding,"  he  said,  taking  up  a  table-spoon, 
"is  my  favorite  pudding!  Ain't  that  lucky?  Come  on, 
little  'un,  and  see  who'll  get  most." 

The  waiter  certainly  got  most.  He  entreated  me  more 
than  once  to  come  in  and  win,  but  what  with  his  table-spoon 
to  my  tea-spoon,  his  dispatch  to  my  dispatch,  and  his  appe- 
tite to  my  appetite,  I  was  left  far  behind  at  the  first  mouth- 
ful, and  had  no  chance  with  him.  I  never  saw  any  one  en- 
joy a  pudding  so  much,  I  think;  and  he  laughed,  when  it 
was  all  gone,  as  if  his  enjoyment  of  it  lasted  still. 

Finding  him  so  very  friendly  and  companionable,  it  was 
then  that  I  asked  for  the  pen  and  ink  and  paper,  to  write  to 
Peggotty.  He  not  only  brought  it  immediately,  but  was 
good  enough  to  look  over  me  while  I  wrote  the  letter. 
When  I  had  finished  it,  he  asked  me  where  I  was  going  to 
school. 

I  said,  "  near  London,"  which  was  all  I  knew, 

"  Oh,  my  eye  !"  he  said,  looking  very  low-spirited,  "  I  am 
sorry  for  that." 

"  Why  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"Oh  Lord  !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "that's  the  school 
where  they  broke  the  boy's  ribs — two  ribs — a  little  boy  he  was. 
I  should  say  he  was — let  me  see — how  old  are  you,  about  ?" 

I  told  him  between  eight  and  nine — almost  nine. 

"  That's  just  his  age,"  he  said.  "  He  was  eight  years  and  six 
months  old  when  they  broke  his  first  rib;  eight  years  and  eight 
months  old  when  they  broke  his  second,  and  did  for  him." 

I  could  not  disguise  from  myself,  or  from  the  waiter,  that 
this  was  an  uncomfortable  coincidence,  and  inquired  how  it 
was  done.  His  answer  was  not  cheering  to  my  spirits,  for 
it  consisted  gf  two  dismal  words,  "  With  whopping." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  73 

The  blowing  of  the  coach-horn  in  the  yard  was  a  season- 
able diversion,  which  made  me  get  up  and  hesitatingly  en- 
quire, in  the  mingled  pride  and  diffidence  of  having  a  purse 
(which  I  took  out  of  my  pocket),  if  there  was  anything  to 
pay. 

"There's  a  sheet  of  letter-paper,"  he  returned.  "Did 
you  ever  buy  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  ?" 

I  could  not  remember  that  I  ever  had. 

"  It's  dear,"  he  said,  "  on  account  of  the  duty.  Three- 
pence. That's  the  way  we're  taxed  in  this  country.  There's 
nothing  else,  except  the  waiter.  Never  mind  the  ink.  / 
lose  by  that." 

"  What  should  you — what  should  I — how  much  ought  I 
to — what  would  it  be  right  to  pay  the  waiter,  if  you  please  }" 
I  stammered,  bluslwng. 

"  If  I  hadn't  a  family,  and  that  family  hadn't  the  cow- 
pox,"  said  the  waiter,  "  I  wouldn't  take  a  sixpence.  If  I 
didn't  support  a  aged  pairint,  and  a  lovely  sister," — here 
the  waiter  was  greatly  agitated — "  I  wouldn't  take  a  far- 
thing. If  I  had  a  good  place,  and  was  treated  well  here,  I 
should  beg  acceptance  of  a  trifle,  instead  of  taking  of  it. 
But  I  live  on  broken  wittles — and  I  sleep  on  the  coals  " — 
here  the  waiter  burst  into  tears. 

I  was  very  much  concerned  for  his  misfortunes,  and  felt 
that  any  recognition  short  of  ninepence  would  be  mere 
brutality  and  hardness  of  heart.  Therefore  I  gave  him  one 
of  my  three  bright  shillings,  which  he  received  with  much 
humility  and  veneration,  and  spun  up  with  his  thumb,  di- 
rectly afterwards,  to  try  the  goodness  of. 

It  was  a  little  disconcerting  to  me,  to  find,  when  I  was 
being  helped  up  behind  the  coach,  that  I  was  supposed  to 
have  eaten  all  the  dinner  without  any  assistance.  I  discov- 
ered this,  from  over-hearing  the  lady  in  the  bow-window 
say  to  the  guard:  "  Take  care  of  that  child,  George,  or 
he'll  burst !"  and  observing  that  the  women-servants  who 
were  about  the  place  came  out  to  look  and  giggle  at  me  as  a 
young  phenomenon.  My  unfortunate  friend  the  waiter, 
who  had  quite  recovered  his  spirits,  did  not  appear  to  be 
disturbed  by  this,  but  joined  in  the  general  admiration  with- 
out being  at  all  confused.  If  I  had  any  doubt  of  him,  I 
suppose  this  half- awakened  it;  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
that  with  the  simple  confidence  of  a  child,  and  the  natural 
reliance  of  a  child  upon  superior  years  (qualities  I  am  very 


74  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

sorry  any  children  should  prematurely  change  for  A^orldly 
wisdom),  I  had  no  serious  mistrust  of  him  on  the  whole, 
even  then. 

I  felt  it  rather  hard,  I  must  own,  to  be  made,  without  de- 
serving it,  the  subject  of  jokes  between  the  coachman  and 
guard  as  to  the  coach  drawing  heavy  behind,  on  account  of 
my  sitting  there,  and  as  to  the  greater  expediency  of  my 
travelling  by  wagon.  The  story  of  my  supposed  appetite 
getting  wind  among  the  outside  passengers,  they  were  merry 
upon  it  likewise;  and  asked  me  whether  I  was  going  to  be 
paid  for,  at  school,  as  two  brothers  or  three,  and  whether 
I  was  contracted  for,  or  went  upon  the  regular  terms;  with 
other  pleasant  questions.  But  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  1 
knew  I  should  be  ashamed  to  eat  anything  when  an  op- 
portunity offered,  and  that,  after  a  rather  light  dinner,  I 
should  remain  hungry  all  night — for  I  had  left  my  cakes  be- 
hind, at  the  hotel,  in  my  hurry.  My  apprehensions  were 
realized.  When  we  stopped  for  supper  I  couldn't  muster 
courage  to  take  any,  though  I  should  have  liked  very  much, 
but  sat  by  the  fire  and  said  I  didn't  want  anything.  This 
did  not  save  me  from  more  jokes,  either;  for  a  husky-voiced 
gentleman  with  a  rough  face,  who  had  been  eating  out  of  a 
sandwich-box  nearly  all  the  way,  except  when  he  had  been 
drinking  out  of  a  bottle,  said  I  was  like  a  boa  constrictor,  who 
took  enough  at  one  meal  to  last  him  a  long  time;  after  which, 
he  actually  brought  a  rash  out  upon  himself  with  boiled  beef. 

We  had  started  from  Yarmouth  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  we  were  due  in  London  about  eight  next 
morning.  It  was  Midsummer  weather,  and  the  evening  was 
very  pleasant.  When  we  passed  through  a  village,  I 
pictured  to  myself  what  the  insides  of  the  houses  were  like, 
and  what  the  inhabitants  were  about;  and  when  boys  came 
running  after  us,  and  got  up  behind,  and  swung  there  for  a 
little-way,  I  wondered  whether  their  fathers  were  alive,  and 
whether  they  were  happy  at  home.  I  had  plenty  to  think 
of,  therefore,  besides  my  mind  running  continually  on  the 
kind  of  place  I  was  going  to — which  was  an  awful  specu- 
lation. Sometimes,  I  remember,  I  resigned  myself  to 
thoughts  of  home  and  Peggotty;  and  to  endeavoring,  in  a 
confused  blind  way,  to  recall  how  I  had  felt,  and  what  sort 
of  boy  I  used  to  be,  before  I  bit  Mr.  Murdstone:  which  I 
couldn't  satisfy  myself  about  by  any  means,  I  seemed  to 
have  bitten  him  in  such  a  remote  antiquity. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.         ^  75 

The  night  was  not  so  pleasant  as  the  evening,  for  it  got 
chilly;  and  being  put  between  two  gentlemen  (the  rough- 
faced  one  and  another)  to  prevent  my  tumbling  off  the 
coach,  I  was  nearly  smothered  by  their  falling  asleep,  and 
completely  blocking  me  up.  They  squeezed  me  so  hard 
sometimes,  that  I  could  not  help  crying  out  *'  Oh!  if  you 
please  !" — which  they  didn't  like  at  all,  because  it  woke 
them.  Opposite  me  was  an  elderly  lady  in  a  great  fur  cloak, 
who  looked  in  the  dark  more  like  a  haystack  than  a  lady, 
she  was  wrapped  up  to  such  a  degree.  This  lady  had  a 
basket  with  her,  and  she  hadn't  known  what  to  do  with  it, 
for  a  long  time,  until  she  found  that  on  account  of  my  legs 
being  short,  it  could  go  underneath  me.  It  cramped  and 
hurt  me  so,  that  it  made  me  perfectly  miserable;  but  if  I 
moved  in  the  least,  and  made  a  glass  that  was  in  the  basket 
rattle  against  something  else  (as  it  was  sure  to  do),  she  gave 
me  the  crudest  poke  with  her  foot,  and  said,  "  Come,  don't 
you  fidget.      Your  bones  are  young  enough,  /'m  sure  !" 

At  last  the  sun  rose,  and  then  my  companions  seemed  to 
sleep  easier.  The  difficulties  under  which  they  had  labored 
all  night,  and  which  had  found  utterance  in  the  most  terrific 
gasps  and  snorts,  are  not  to  be  conceived.  As  the  sun  got 
higher,  their  sleep  became  lighter,  and  so  they  gradually 
one  by  one  awoke.  I  recollect  being  very  much  surprised 
by  the  feint  everybody  made,  then,  of  not  having  been  to 
sleep  at  all,  and  by  the  uncommon  indignation  with  which 
every  one  repelled  the  charge.  I  labor  under  the  same  kind 
of  astonishment  to  this  day,  having  invariably  observed  that 
of  all  human  weaknesses,  the  one  to  which  our  common 
nature  is  the  least  disposed  to  confess  (I  cannot  imagine  why) 
is  the  weakness  of  having  gone  to  sleep  in  a  coach. 

What  an  amazing  place  London  was  to  me  when  I  saw  it 
in  the  distance,  and  how  I  believed  all  the  adventures  of  all 
my  favorite  heroes  to  be  constantly  enacting  and  re-enacting 
there,  and  how  1  vaguely  made  it  out  in  my  own  mind  to  be 
fuller  of  wonders  and  wickedness  than  all  the  cities  of  the 
earth,  I  need  not  stop  here  to  relate.  We  approached  it  by 
degrees,  and  got,  in  due  time,  to  the  inn  in  the  Whitechapel 
district,  for  which  we  were  bound.  I  forget  whether  it  was 
the  Blue  Bull,  or  the  Blue  Boar;  but  I  know  it  was  the  Blue 
Something,  and  that  its  likeness  was  painted  up  on  the  back 
of  the  coach. 

The  guard's  eye  lighted  on  me  as  he  was  getting  down, 
and  he  said  at  the  bookiuiT-office  door; 


76  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Is  there  anybody  here  for  a  yoongster  booked  in  the 
name  of  Murdstone,  from  Bloonderstone,  Sooffolk,  to  be  left 
'till  called  for  ?" 

Nobody  answered. 

"  Try  Copperfield,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  I,  looking 
helplessly  down. 

*'  Is  there  anybody  here  for  a  yoongster,  booked  in  the 
name  of  Murdstone,  from  Bloonderstone,  Sooffolk,  but  own- 
ing to  the  name  of  Copperfield,  to  be  left  'till  called  for  ?" 
said  the  guard.     ^'  Come  ?     Is  there  anybody  .''" 

No.  There  was  nobody.  I  looked  anxiously  around; 
but  the  inquiry  made  no  impression  on  any  of  the  bystan- 
ders, if  I  except  a  man  in  gaiters,  with  one  eye,  who  sug- 
gested that  they  had  better  put  a  brass  collar  round  my 
neck,  and  tie  me  up  in  the  stable. 

A  ladder  was  brought,  and  I  got  down  after  the  lady,  who 
was  like  a  haystack:  not  daring  to  stir,  until  her  basket  was 
removed.  The  coach  was  clear  of  passengers  by  that  time, 
the  luggage  was  very  soon  cleared  out,  the  horses  had  been 
taken  out  before  the  luggage,  and  now  the  coach  itself  was 
wheeled  and  backed  off  by  some  hostlers,  out  of  the  way. 
Still,  nobody  appeared,  to  claim  the  dusty  youngster  from 
Blunderstone,  Suffolk. 

More  solitary  than  Robinson  Crusoe,  who  had  nobody  to 
look  at  him  and  see  that  he  was  solitary,  I  went  into  the 
booking-office,  and,  by  invitation  of  the  clerk  on  duty,  passed 
behind  the  counter,  and  sat  down  on  the  scale  at  which  they 
weighed  the  luggage.  Here,  as  I  sat  looking  at  the  parcels, 
packages,  and  books,  and  inhaling  the  smell  of  stables  (ever 
since  associated  with  that  morning),  a  procession  of  most 
tremendous  considerations  began  to  march  through  my  mind. 
Supposing  nobody  should  ever  fetch  me,  how  long  would 
they  consent  to  keep  me  there  ?  Would  they  keep  me  long 
enough  to  spend  seven  shillings  ?  Should  I  sleep  at  night  in 
one  of  those  wooden  binns  with  the  other  luggage,  and  wash 
myself  at  the  pump  in  the  yard  in  the  morning;  or  should  I 
be  turned  out  every  night,  and  expected  to  come  again  to 
be  left  'till  called  for,  when  the  office  opened  next  day  ? 
Supposing  there  was  no  mistake  in  the  case,  and  Mr.  Murd- 
stone had  devised  this  plan  to  get  rid  of  me,  what  should  I 
do  ?  If  they  allowed  me  to  remain  there  until  my  seven  shil- 
lings were  spent,  I  couldn't  hope  to  remain  there  when  I  be- 
gan to  starve.     That  would  obviously  be  inconvenient  and 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  77 

unpleasant  to  the  customers,  besides  entailing  on  the  Blue 
Whatever-it-was,  the  risk  of  funeral  expenses.  If  I  started 
off  at  once,  and  tried  to  walk  back  home,  how  could  I  ever 
find  my  way,  how  could  I  ever  hope  to  walk  so  far,  how  could 
I  make  sure  of  any  one  but  Peggotty,  even  if  I  got  back  ? 
If  I  found  out  the  nearest  proper  authorities,  and  offered 
myself  to  go  for  a  soldier,  or  a  sailor,  I  was  such  a  little  fel- 
low that  it  was  most  likely  they  wouldn't  take  me  in.  These 
thoughts,  and  a  hundred  other  such  thoughts,  turned  me  burn- 
ing hot,  and  made  me  giddy  with  apprehension  and  dismay,  1 
was  in  the  hei-ght  of  my  fever  when  a  man  entered  and  whis- 
pered to  the  clerk,  who  presently  slanted  me  off  the  scale, 
and  pushed  me  over  to  him,  as  if  I  were  weighed,  bought,  de- 
livered, and  paid  for. 

As  I  went  out  of  the  office,  hand  in  hand  with  this  new 
acquaintance,  I  stole  a  look  at  him.  He  was  a  gaunt,  sallow 
young  man,  with  hollow  cheeks,  and  a  chin  almost  as  black 
as  Mr.  Murdstone's;  but  there  the  likeness  ended,  for  his 
whiskers  were  shaved  off,  and  his  hair,  instead  of  being 
glossy,  was  rusty  and  dry.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
black  clothes  which  were  rather  rusty  and  dry  too,  and 
rather  short  in  the  sleeves  and  legs;  and  he  had  a  white 
neck-kerchief  on  that  was  not  over-clean.  I  did  not,  and 
do  not,  suppose  that  this  neck-kerchief  was  all  the  linen  he 
wore,  but  it  was  all  he  showed  or  gave  any  hint  of. 

"  You're  the  new  boy  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said.     I  supposed  I  was.     I  didn't  know. 

"  I'm  one  of  the  masters  at  Salem  House,"  he  said. 

I  made  him  a  bow  and  felt  very  much  overawed.  I  was 
so  ashamed  to  allude  to  a  common-place  thing  like  my  box, 
to  a  scholar  and  a  master  at  Salem  House,  that  we  had  gone 
some  little  distance  from  the  yard  before  I  had  the  hardihood 
to  mention  it.  We  turned  back,  on  my  humbly  insinuating 
that  it  might  be  useful  to  me  hereafter;  and  he  told  the 
clerk  that  the  carrier  had  instructions  to  call  for  it  at  noon. 

."  If  you  please,  sir,"  I  said,  when  we  had  accomphshed 
about  the  same  distance  as  before,  "  is  it  far .''" 

*'  It's  down  by  Blackheath,"  he  said. 

"  Is  that  far,  sir  ?"  I  diffidently  asked. 

"  It's  a  good  step,"  he  said.  "  We  shall  go  by  the  stage- 
coach.    It's  about  six  miles." 

I  was  so  faint  and  tired,  that  the  idea  of  holding  out  for 
six  miles  more,  was  too  much  for  me.     I  took  heart  to  tell 


78  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

him  that  I  had  had  nothing  all  night,  and  that  if  he  would 
allow  me  to  buy  something  to  eat,  I  should  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him.  He  appeared  surprised  at  this — I  see  him 
stop  and  look  at  me  now — and  after  considering  for  a  few 
moments,  said  he  wanted  to  call  on  an  old  person  who  lived 
not  far  off,  and  that  the  best  way  would  be  for  me  to  buy 
some  bread,  or  whatever  I  liked  best  that  was  wholesome, 
and  make  my  breakfast  at  her  house,  where  we  could  get 
some  milk. 

Accordingly  we  looked  in  at  a  baker's  window,  and  after 
\  I  had  made  a  series  of  proposals  to  buy  everything  that  was 
"^  bilious  in  the  shop,  and  he  had  rejected  them  one  by  one, 
we  decided  in  favor  of  a  nice  little  loaf  of  brown  bread, 
which  cost  me  threepence.  Then,  at  a  grocer's  shop,  we 
bought  an  egg  and  a  slice  of  streaky  bacon;  which  still  left 
what  I  thought  a  good  deal  of  change,  out  of  the  second  of 
the  bright  shillings,  and  made  me  consider  London  a  very 
cheap  place.  These  provisions  laid  in,  we  went  on  through 
a  great  noise  and  uproar  that  confused  my  weary  head  be- 
yond description,  and  over  a  bridge  which,  no  doubt,  was 
London  Bridge  (indeed  I  think  he  told  me  so,  but  I  was 
half  asleep),  until  we  came  to  the  poor  person's  house, 
which  was  a  part  of  some  alms-houses,  as  I  knew  by  their 
look,  and  by  an  inscription  on  a  stone  over  the  gate,  which 
said  they  were  established  for  twenty-five  poor  women. 

The  Master  at  Salem  House  lifted  the  latch  of  one  of  a 
number  of  little  black  doors  that  were  all  alike,  and  had 
each  a  little  diamond-paned  window  on  one  side,  and  another 
little  diamond-paned  window  above;  and  we  went  into  the 
little  house  of  one  of  these  poor  old  women,  who  was  blow- 
ing a  fire  to  make  a  little  saucepan  boil.  On  seeing  the 
master  enter,  the  old  woman  stopped  with  the  bellows  on 
her  knee,  and  said  something  that  I  thought  sounded  like 
'*  My  Charley  !  "  but  on  seeing  me  come  in  too,  she  got  up, 
and  rubbing  her  hands  made  a  confused  sort  of  half  courtesy. 

"  Can  you  cook  this  young  gentleman's  breakfast  for  him, 
if  you  please  ?"  said  the  Master  at  Salem  House. 

"  Can  I  ?"  said  the  old  woman.     "  Yes  can  I,  sure  !" 

"  How's  Mrs.  Fibbitson  to-day  ?"  said  the  Master,  looking 
at  another  old  woman  in  a  large  chair  by  the  fire,  who  was 
such  a  bundle  of  clothes  that  I  feel  grateful  to  this  hour  for 
not  having  sat  upon  her  by  mistake. 

"  Ah,  she's  poorly,"  said  the  first  old  woman.     "  It's  one 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  79 

of  her  bad  days.  If  the  fire  was  to  go  out,  through  any 
accident,'  I  verily  believe  she'd  go  out  too,  and  never  come 
to  life  again." 

As  they  looked  at  her,  I  looked  at  her  also.     Although  it 
was  a  warm  day,  she  seemed  to  think   of    nothing  but  the 
fire.     I  fancied  she  was  jealous  even  of  the  saucepan  on  it;     / 
and  I  have  reason  to  know  that  she  took  its  impressment  into  ^ 
the  service  of  boiling  my  egg   and    broiling  my    bacon,    in       y 
dudgeon;  for  I  saw  her,    with   my   own  discomfited   eyes,  v/ 
shake  her  fist  at  me  once,  when  those   culinary   operations  ^^ 
were  going  on,   and  no   one  else   was    looking.     The   sun 
streamed  ^'n  at  the  little  window,  but  she  sat  with  her  own 
back  and  the  back  of  the  large  chair   towards  it,   screening      y 
the  fire  as  if  she  were  sedulously  keeping  it  warm,   instead 
of  it  keeping  her  warm,  and  watching  it  in  a  most  distrustful 
manner.     The  completion  of  the  preparations  for  my  break- 
fast, by  relieving  the  fire,  gave  her  such   extreme  joy   that 
she  laughed  aloud — and  a  very  unmelodious  laugh  she  had, 
I  must  say. 

I  sat  down  to  my  brown  loaf,  my  egg,  and  my  rasher  of 
bacon  with  a  basin  of  milk  besides,  and  made  a  most 
delicious  meal.  While  I  was  yet  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
it,  the  old  wom.an  of  the  house  said  to  the  Master: 

"  Have  you  got  your  flute  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  returned. 

"  Have  a  blow  at  it,"  said  the  old  woman,  coaxingly. 
"  Do  !" 

The  Master,  upon  this,  put  his  hand  underneath  the  skirts 
of  his  coat,  and  brought  out  his  flute  in  three  pieces,  which 
he  screwed  together,  and  began  immediately  to  play.  My 
impression  is,  after  many  years  of  consideration,  that  there 
never  can  have  been  anybody  in  the  world  who  played  worse. 
He  made  the  most  dismal  sounds  I  have  ever  heard  pro- 
duced by  any  means,  natural  or  artificial.  I  don't  know 
what  the  tunes  were — if  there  were  such  things  in  the  per- 
formance at  all,  which  I  doubt — but  the  influence  of  the 
strain  upon  me  was,  first,  to  make  me  think  of  all  my  sor- 
rows until  I  could  hardly  keep  my  tears  back;  then  to  take 
away  my  appetite;  and  lastly  to  make  me  so  sleepy  that  I 
couldn't  keep  my  eyes  open.  They  begin  to  close  again, 
and  I  begin  to  nod,  as  the  recollection  rises  fresh  upon  me. 
Once  more  the  little  room  with  its  open  corner  cupboard, 
and  its  square-backed  chairs,  and  its  angular  little  staircase 


8o  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

leading  to  the  room  above,  and  its  three  peacock's  feathers 
displayed  over  the  mantelpiece — I  remember  wondering 
when  I  first  went  in,  what  that  peacock  would  have  thought 
if  he  had  known  what  his  finery  was  doomed  to  come  to — 
fades  from  before  me,  and  I  nod,  and  sleep.  The  flute  be- 
comes inaudible,  the  wheels  of  the  coach  ^re  heard  instead, 
and  I  am  on  my  journey.  The  coach  jolts,  I  wake  with  a 
start,  and  the  flute  has  come  back  again,  and  the  Master  at 
Salem  House  is  sitting  with  his  legs  crossed,  playing  it  dole- 
fully^ while  the  old  woman  of  the  house  looks  on  delighted. 
She  fades  in  her  turn,  and  he  fades,  and  all  fades,  and  there 
is  no  flute,  no  Master,  no  Salem  House,  no  David  Copper- 
field,  or  anything  but  heavy  sleep. 

I  dreamed,  I  thought,  that  once  while  he  was  blowing  into 
this  dismal  flute,  the  old  woman  of  the  house,  who  had  gone 
nearer  and  nearer  to  him  in  her  ecstatic  admiration,  leaned 
over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  gave  him  an  affectionate 
squeeze  round  the  neck,  which  stopped  his  playing  for  a 
moment.  I  was  in  the  middle  state  between  sleeping  and 
waking,  either  then  or  immediately  afterwards,  for,  as  he  re- 
sumed— it  was  a  real  fact  that  he  had  stopped  playing — I 
saw  and  heard  the  same  old  woman  ask  Mrs.  Fibbitson,  if  it 
wasn't  delicious  (meaning  the  flute),  to  which  Mrs.  Fibbit- 
son replied.  "  Ay,ay  !  Yes  !"  and  nodded  at  the  fire:  to 
which  I  am  persuaded,  she  gave  the  credit  of  the  whole 
performance. 

When  I  seemed  to  have  been  dozing  a  long  while,  the 
Master  at  Salem  House  unscrewed  his  flute  into  three  pieces, 
put  them  up  as  before,  and  took  me  away.  We  found  the 
coach  very  near  at  hand,  and  got  upon  the  roof;  but  I  was 
so  dead  sleepy,  that  when  we  stopped  on  the  road  to  take  up 
somebody  else,  they  put  me  inside  where  there  were  no  pas- 
sengers, and  where  I  slept  profaundly,  until  I  found  the 
coach  going  at  a  foot  pace  up  a  steep  hill  among  green  leaves. 
Presently,  it  stopped,  and  had  come  to  its  destination. 

A  short  walk  brought  us — I  mean  the  Master  and  me — to 
Salem  House,  which  was  enclosed  with  a  high  brick  wall, 
and  looked  very  dull.  Over  a  door  in  this  wall  was  a  board 
with  Salem  House  upon  it;  and  through  a  grating  in  this 
door  we  were  surveyed  when  we  rang  the  bell  by  a  surly 
face,  which  I  found,  on  the  door  being  opened,  belonged  to 
a  stout  man  with  a  bull-neck,  a  wooden  leg,  overhanging 
temples,  and  his  hair  cut  close  all  round  his  head. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  81 

"  The  new  boy,"  said  the  Master. 

The  man  with  the  wooden  leg  eyed  me  all  over — it  didn't 
take  long,  for  there  was  not  much  of  me — and  locked  the 
gate  behind  us,  and  took  out  the  key.  We  were  going  up  to 
the  house,  among  some  dark  heavy  trees,  when  he  called 
after  my  conductor. 

"  Hallo  !" 

We  looked  back,  and  he  was  standing  at  the  door  of  a 
little  lodge,  where  he  lived,  with  a  pair  of  boots  in  his  hand. 

*'  Here  !  The  cobbler's  been,"  he  said,  "  since  you've 
been  out,  Mr.  Mell,  and  he  says  he  can't  mend  'em  any 
more.  He  says  there  an't  a  bit  of  the  original  boot  left,  and 
he  wonders  you  expect  it." 

With  these  words  he  threw  the  boots  towards  Mr.  Mell, 
who  went  back  a  few  paces  to  pick  them  up,  and  looked  at 
them  (very  disconsolately,  I  was  afraid),  as  we  went  on  to- 
gether. I  observed  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  boots 
he  had  on  were  a  good  deal  the  worse  for  wear,  and  that  his 
stocking  was  just  breaking  out  in  one  place,  like  a  bud. 

Salem  House  was  a  square  brick  building  with  wings;  of 
a  bare  and  unfurnished  appearance.  All  about  it  was  so  very 
quiet,  that  I  said  to  Mr.  Mell  I  supposed  the  boys  were  out; 
but  he  seemed  surprised  at  my  not  knowing  that  it  was 
holiday-time.  That  all  the  boys  were  at  their  several  homes. 
That  Mr.  Creakle,  the  proprietor,  was  down  by  the  sea-side 
with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle;  and  that  I  was  sent  in  holiday- 
time  as  a  punishment  for  my  misdoing,  all  of  which  he  ex- 
plained to  me  as  we  went  along. 

I  gazed  upon  the  schoolroom  into  which  he  took  me,  as 
the  most  forlorn  and  desolate  place  I  had  ever  seen.  I  see 
it  now.  A  long  room  with  three  long  rows  of  desks,  and  six 
of  forms,  and  bristling  all  round  with  pegs  for  hats  and 
slates.  Scraps  of  old  copy-books  and  exercises  litter  the 
dirty  floor.  Some  silk-worms'  houses,  made  of  the  same  materi- 
als, are  scattered  over  the  desks.  Two  miserable  white  mice, 
left  behind  by  their  owner,  are  running  up  and  down  in  a 
fusty  castle  made  of  pasteboard  and  wire,  looking  in  all  the 
corners  with  their  red  eyes  for  anything  to  eat.  A  bird,  in 
a  cage  a  very  little  bigger  than  himself,  makes  a  mournful 
rattle  now  and  then  in  hopping  on  his  perch,  two  inches 
high,  or  dropping  from  it;  but  neither  sings  nor  chirps. 
There  is  a  strange  unwholesome  smell  upon  the  room,  like 
mildewed  corduroys,  sweet  apples  wanting  air,  and  rotten 


53  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

books.  There  could  not  well  be  more  ink  splashed  about  it, 
if  it  had  been  roofless  from  its  first  construction,  and  the 
skies  had  rained,  snowed,  hailed,  and  blown  ink  through  the 
varying  seasons  of  the  year. 

Mr.  Mell  having  left  me  while  he  took  his  irreparable  boots 
upstairs,  I  went  softly  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  observ- 
ing all  this  as  I  crept  along.  Suddenly  I  came  upon  a  paste- 
board placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was  lying  on  the 
desk,  and  bore  these  words — "  Take  care  of  him.  He  bites'* 
I  got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  apprehensive  of  at  least 
a  great  dog  underneath.  But,  though  I  looked  with  anxious 
eyes,  I  could  see  nothing  of  him.  I  was  still  engaged  in  peer- 
ing about,  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back,  and  asked  me  what  I 
did  up  there. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  I,  "  if  you  please,  I'm  look- 
ing for  the  dog." 

"  Dog  ?"  says  he.     "  What  dog  ?" 
*'  Isn't  it  a  dog,  sir  ?" 
*'  Isn't  what  a  dog  ?" 

"  That's  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir;  that  bites." 
*'  No,.  Copperfield,"  says   he   gravely,  "  that's  not  a   dog. 
That's  a  boy.     My  instructions  are,  Copperfield,  to  put  this 
placard  on  your  back.     I  am  sorry  to  make  such  a  beginning 
with  you,  but  I  must  do  it." 

With  that,  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the  placard,  which 
was  neatly  constructed  for  the  purpose,  on  my  shoulders 
like  a  knapsack;  and  wherever  I  went,  afterwards,  I  had 
the  consolation  of  carrying  it. 

What  I  suffered  from  that  placard,  nobody  can  imagine. 
Whether  it  was  possible  for  people  to  see  me  or  not,  I  always 
fancied  that  somebody  was  reading  it.  It  was  no  relief  to 
turn  round  and  find  nobody;  for  wherever  my  back  was, 
there  I  imagined  somebody  always  to  be.  That  cruel  man 
with  the  wooden  leg,  aggravated  my  sufferings.  He  was  in 
authority;  and  if  he  ever  saw  me  leaning  against  a  tree,  or  a 
wall,  or  the  house,  he  roared  out  from  his  lodge-door  in  a 
stupendous  voice,  "  Hallo,  you  sir!  You  Copperfield!  Show 
that  badge  conspicuous,  or  I'll  report  you  !"  The  playground 
was  a  bare  graveled  yard,  open  to  all  the  back  of  the  house 
and  the  offices;  and  I  knew  that  the  servants  read  it,  and 
the  butcher  read  it,  and  the  baker  read  \t,  that  everybody,  in 
a  word,  who  came  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  house,  of 
a  morning,  .when  I  was  ordered  to  walk  there,   read  that   I 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  53 

was  to  be  taken  care  of,  for  I  bit.  I  recollect  that  I  pos- 
itively began  to  have  a  dread  of  myself,  as  a  kind  of  wild 
boy  who  did  bite. 

There  was  an  old  door  in  this  playground,  on  which  the 
boys  had  a  custom  of  carving  their  names.  It  was  com- 
pletely covered  with  such  inscriptions.  In  my  dread  of  the 
end  of  the  vacation  and  their  coming  back,  I  could  not  read 
a  boy's  name,  without  enqaiiring  in  what  tone  and  with  what 
emphasis  /^^  would  read,  "take  care  of  him.  He  bites." 
There  was  one  boy — a  certain  J.  Steerforth — who  cut  his 
name  very  deep  and  very  often,  who,  I  conceived,  would 
read  it  in  a  rather  strong  voice,  and  afterwards  pull  my  hair. 
There  was  another  boy,  one  Tommy  Traddles,  who  I  dreaded 
would  make  game  of  it,  and  pretend  to  be  dreadfully  fright- 
ened of  me.  There  was  a  third,  George  Demple,  who  I 
fancied  would  sing  it.  I  have  looked,  a  little  shrinking 
creature,  at  that  door,  until  the  owners  of  all  the  names — 
there  were  five-and-forty  of  them  in  school  then,  Mr.  Mell 
said — seemed  to  send  me  to  Coventry  by  general  acclama- 
tion, and  to  cry  out,  each  in  his  own  way,  "  Take  care  of 
him.     He  bites  !" 

It  was  the  same  with  the  places  at  the  desks  and  forms.  It 
was  the  same  with  the  groves  of  deserted  bedsteads  I  peeped 
at,  on  my  way  to,  and  when  I  was  in,  my  own  bed.  I  re- 
member dreaming  night  after  night,  of  being  with  my  mother 
as  she  used  to  be,  or  of  going  to  a  party  at  Mr.  Peggotty's, 
or  of  traveling  outside  the  stage-coach,  or  of  dining  again 
with  my  unfortunate  friend  the  waiter,  and  in  all  these  cir- 
cumstances making  people  scream  and  stare,  by  the  unhappy 
disclosure  that  I  had  nothing  on  but  my  little  night-shirt, 
and  that  placard. 

In  the  monotony  of  my  life,  and  in  my  constant  appre- 
hension of  the  re-opening  of  the  school,  it  was  such  an  in- 
supportable affliction!  I  had  long  tasks  every  day  to  do  with 
Mr.  Meli;  but  I  did  them,  there  being  no  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  here,  and  got  through  them  without  disgrace. 
Before,  and  after  them,  I  walked  about — supervised,  as  I 
have  mentioned,  by  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg.  How 
vividly  I  call  to  mind  the  damp  about  the  house,  the  green  ^ 
cracked  flag-stones  in  the  court,  an  old  leaky  water-butt,  and 
the  discolored  trunks  of  some  of  the  grim  trees,  which  seemed 
to  have  dripped  more  in  the  rain  than  other  trees,  and  to 
have  blown  less  in  the  sun!     At  one  we  dined,  Mr.  Mell  and 


84  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I,  at  the  upper  end  of  a  long  bare  dining-room,  full  of  deal 
tables,  and  smelling  of  fat.  Then,  we  had  more  tasks  until 
tea,  which  Mr.  Mell  drank  out  of  a  blue  tea  cup,  and  I  out 
out  of  a  tin  pot.  All  day  long,  and  until  seven  or  eight  in 
the  evening,  Mr.  Mell,  at  his  own  detached  desk  in  the 
schoolroom,  worked  hard  with  pen,  ink,  ruler,  books,  and 
writing-paper,  making  out  the  bills  (as  I  found)  for  last  half- 
year.  When  he  had  put  up  his  things  for  the  night  he  took 
out  his  flute,  and  blew  at  it,  until  I  almost  thought  he  would 
gradually  blow  his  whole  being  into  the  large  hole  at  the 
top,  and  ooze  away  at  the  keys. 

I  picture  my  small  self  in  the  dimly-lighted  rooms,  sitting 
with  my  head  upon  my  hand,  listening  to  the  doleful  per- 
formance of  Mr.  Mell,  and  conning  to-morrow's  lessons.  I 
picture  myself  with  my  books  shut  up,  still  listening  to  the 
doleful  performance  of  Mr.  Mell,  and  listening  through  it  to 
what  used  to  be  at  home,  and  to  the  blowing  of  the  wind  on 
Yarmouth  flats,  and  feeling  very  sad  and  solitary.  I  picture 
myself  going  up  to  bed,  among  the  unused  rooms,  and  sitting 
on  my  bed-side  crying  for  a  comfortable  word  from  Peggotty. 
I  picture  myself  coming  down  stairs  in  the  morning,  and 
looking  through  a  long  ghastly  gash  of  a  staircase-window, 
at  the  school-bell  hanging  on  the  top  of  an  outhouse,  with  a 
weathercock  above  it;  and  dreading  the  time  when  it  shall 
ring  J.  Steerforth  and  the  rest  to  work:  which  is  only  second 
to  the  time  when  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  shall  unlock 
the  rusty  gate  to  give  admission  to  the  awful  Mr.  Creakle. 
I  cannot  think  I  was  a  very  dangerous  character  in  any  of 
these  aspects,  but  in  all  of  them  I  carried  the  same  warning 
on  my  back. 

Mr.  Mell  never  said  much  to  me,  but  he  was  never  harsh 
to  me.  I  suppose  we  were  company  to  each  other,  without 
talking.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  he  would  talk  to  himself 
sometimes,  and  grin,  and  clench  his  fist,  and  grind  his  teeth, 
and  pull  his  hair  in  an  unaccountable  manner.  But  he  had 
these  peculiarities:  and  at  first  they  frightened  me,  though  I 
soon  got  used  to  them. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  85 

CHAPTER   VI. 

1   ENLARGE   MY    CIRCLE    OF    ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  had  led  this  life  about  a  month,^  when  the  man  with  the 
wooden  leg  began  to  stump  about  with  a  mop  and  a  bucket 
of  water,  from  which  I  inferred  that  preparations  were  mak- 
ing to  receive  Mr.  Creakle  and  the  boys.  I  was  not  mis- 
taken; for  the  mop  came  into  the  schoolroom  before  long, 
and  turned  out  Mr.  Mell  and  me,  who  lived  where  we  could, 
and  got  on  how  we  could  for  some  days,  during  which  we 
were  always  in  the  way  of  two  or  three  young  women,  who 
had  rarely  shown  themselves  before,  and  were  so  continually 
in  the  midst  of  dust  that  I  sneezed  almost  as  much  as  if  Salem 
House  had  been  a  great  snuff-box. 

One  day  I  was  informed  by  Mr.  Mell  that  Mr.  Creakle 
would  be  home  that  evening.  In  the  evening,  after  tea,  I 
heard  that  he  was  come.  Before  bed-time,  I  was  fetched  by 
the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  to  appear  before  him. 

Mr.  Creakle's  part  of  the  house  was  a  good  deal  more  com- 
fortable than  ours,  and  he  had  a  snug  bit  of  garden  that 
looked  pleasant  after  the  dusty  playground,  which  was  such  a 
desert  in  miniature,  that  I  thought  no  one  but  a  camel,  or  a 
dromedary,  could  have  felt  at  home  in  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  bold  thing  even  to  take  notice  that  the  passage  looked 
comfortable,  as  I  went  on  my  way,  trembling,  to  Mr.  Creakle's 
presence:  which  so  abashed  me,  when  I  was  ushered  into  it, 
that  I  hardly  saw  Mrs.  Creakle  or  Miss  Creakle  (who  were 
both  there,  in  the  parlor),  or  anything,  but  Mr.  Creakle,  a 
stout  gentleman  with  a  bunch  of  watch-chain  and  seals,  in  an 
armchair,  with  a  tumbler  and  bottle  beside  him. 

"So!"  said  Mr.  Creakle.  "This  is  the  young  gentleman 
whose  teeth  are  to  be  filled!     Turn  him  round." 

The  wooden-legged  man  turned  me  about  so  as  to  exhibit 
the  placard;  and  having  afforded  time  for  a  full  survey  of  it 
turned  me  about  again  with  my  face  to  Mr.  Creakle,  and 
posted  himself  at  Mr.  Creakle's  side.  Mr.  Creakle's  face»v/as 
fiery,  and  his  eyes  were  small  and  deep  in  his  head:  he  had 
thick  veins  in  his  forehead,  a  little  nose,  and  a  large  chin. 
He  was  bald  on  the  top  of  his  head;  and  had  some  thin  wet- 
looking  hair  that  was  just  turning  grey  brushed  across  each 
temple,  so  that  the  two  sides  interlaced  on  his  forehead.     But 


S6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

the  circumstance  about  him  which  impressed  me  most,  was, 
that  he  had  no  voice,  but  spoke  in  a  whisper.  The  exertion  this 
cost  him,  or  the  consciousness  of  talking  in  that  feeble  way, 
made  his  angry  face  so  much  more  angry,  and  his  thick  veins 
so  much  thicker,  when  he  spoke,  that  I  am  not  surprised,  on 
looking  back,  at  this  peculiarity  striking  me  as  his  chief  one. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Creakle.  "  What's  the  report  of  this 
boy?" 

"  There's  nothing  against  him  yet,"  returned  the  man  with 
the  wooden  leg.     "  There  has  been  no  opportunity." 

I  thought  Mr.  Creakle  was  disappointed.  I  thought  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Creakle  (at  whom  I  now  glanced  for  the  first  time, 
and  who  were,  both,  thin  and  quiet)  were  not  disappointed. 

"  Come  here,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  beckoning  to  me. 

"  Come  here!"  said  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  repeat- 
ing the  gesture. 

**  I  have  the  happiness  of  knowing  your  father-in-law," 
whispered  Mr.  Creakle,  taking  me  by  the  ear;  "  and  a  worthy 
man  he  is,  and  a  man  of  strong  character.  He  knows  me, 
and  I  know  him.  Do  you  know  me!  Hey?"  said  Mr. 
Creakle,  pinching  my  ear  with  ferocious  playfulness. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,"  I  said,  flinching  with  the  pain. 

"Not  yet!  Hey?"  repeated  Mr.  Creakle.  "But  you  will 
soon.     Hey?" 

"  You  will  soon.  Hey?"  repeated  the  man  with  the 
wooden  leg.  I  afterwards  found  that  he  generally  acted, 
with  his  strong  voice,  as  Mr.  Creakle's  interpreter  to  the 
boys. 

I  was  very  much  frightened,  and  said,  I  hoped  so,  if  he 
pleased.  I  felt  all  this  while  as  if  my  ear  were  blazing;  he 
pinched  it  so  hard. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am,"  whispered  Mr.  Creakle,  letting 
it  go  at  last,  with  a  screw  at  parting  that  brought  the  water 
to  my  eyes,  "  I'm  a  Tartar." 

"  A  Tartar,"  said  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg. 

"When  I  say  I'll  do  a  thing  I  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Creakle; 
"  and  when  I  say  I  will  have  a  thing  done,  I  will  have  it 
done." 

" — Will  have  a  thing  done,  I  will  have  it  done,"  repeated 
the  man  with  the  wooden  leg. 

"  I  am  a  determined  character,"  said  Mr.  Creakle. 
"  That's  what  I  am.  I  do  my  duty.  That's  what  /  do.  My 
flesh  and  blood" — he  looked  at  Mrs.  Creakle  as  he  said  this  — 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  87 

"  when  it  rises  against  me,  is  not  my  flesh  and  blood.  I  dis- 
card it.  Has  that  fellow,"  to  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg, 
"  been  here  again?" 

'*  No,"  was  the  answer. 

*'  No,"  said  Mr,  Creakle.  "  He  knows  better.  He  knows 
me.  Let  him  keep  away.  I  say  let  him  keep  away,"  said 
Mr.  Creakle,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table,  and  looking 
at  Mrs.  Creakle,  "  for  he  knows  me.  Now  you  have  begun 
to  know  me  too,  my  young  friend,  and  you  may  go.  Take 
him  away." 

I  was  very  glad  to  be  ordered  away,  for  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Creakle  were  both  wiping  their  eyes,  and  I  felt  as  uncom- 
fortable for  them  as  I  did  for  myself.  But  I  had  a  petition 
on  my  mind  which  concerned  me  so  nearly,  that  I  couldn't 
help  saying,  though  I  wondered  at  my  own  courage: 

*'  If  you  please,  sir — " 

Mr.  Creakle  whispered  "  Hah!  What's  this?"  and  bent  his 
eyes  upon  me,  as  if  he  would  have  burned  me  with  them. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  I  faltered,  "  if  I  might  be  allowed  (I 
am  very  sorry  indeed,  sir,  for  what  I  did)  to  take  this  writing 
off,  before  the  boys  come  back — " 

Whether  Mr.  Creakle  was  in  earnest,  or  whether  he  only 
did  it  to  frighten  me,  I  don't  know,  but  he  made  a  burst 
out  of  his  chair,  before  which  I  precipitately  retreated,  with- 
out waiting  for  the  escort  of  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg, 
and  never  once  stopped  until  I  reached  my  own  bedroom, 
where,  finding  I  was  not  pursued,  I  went  to  bed,  as  it  was 
time,  and  lay  quaking  for  a  couple  of  hours. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Sharp  came  back.  Mr.  Sharp  was  the 
first  master,  and  superior  to  Mr.  Mell.  Mr.  Mell  took  his 
meals  with  the  boys,  but  Mr.  Sharp  dined  and  supped  at  Mr. 
Creakle's  table.  He  was  a  limp,  delicate-looking  gentleman, 
I  thought,  with  a  good  deal  of  nose,  and  a  way  of  carrying 
his  head  on  one  side,  as  if  it  were  a  little  too  heavy  for  him. 
His  hair  was  very  smooth  and  wavy;  but  I  was  informed  by 
the  very  first  boy  who  came  back  that  it  was  a  wig  (a  second- 
hand one  he  said),  and  that  Mr.  Sharp  went  out  every  Satur- 
day afternoon  to  get  it  curled. 

It  was  no  other  than  Tommy  Traddles  who  gave  me  this 
piece  of  intelligence.  He  was  the  first  boy  who  returned. 
He  introduced  himself  by  informing  me  that  I  should  find 
his  name  on  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  gate,  over  the  top 
bolt;  upon   that  I  said  "  Master  Traddles  ?"  to  which  he  re- 


88  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

plied,  "  the  same,"  and  then  he  asked  me  for  a  full  account 
of  myself  and  family. 

It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  me  that  Traddles  came 
back  first.  He  enjoyed  my  placard  so  much,  that  he  saved 
me  from  the  embarrassment  of  either  disclosure  or  conceal- 
ment, by  presenting  me  to  every  other  boy  who  came  back, 
great  or  small,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  in  this  form  of  in- 
troduction, "  Look  here  !  Here's  a  game  !"  Happily,  too, 
the  greater  part  of  the  boys  came  back  low  spirited,  and 
were  not  so  boisterous  at  my  expense  as  I  had  expected. 
Some  of  them  certainly  did  dance  about  me  like  wild  Indians, 
and  the  greater  part  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  pre- 
tending that  I  was  a  dog,  and  patting  and  smoothing  me  lest 
I  should  bite,  and  saying  "  Lie  down,  sir  !"  and  calling  me 
Towzer.  This  was  naturally  confusing,  among  so  many 
strangers,  and  cost  me  some  tears,  but  on  the  whole  it  was 
much  better  than  I  had  anticipated. 

I  was  not  considered  as  being  formally  received  into  the 
school,  however,  until  J.  Steerforth  arrived.  Before  this  boy, 
who  was  reputed  to  be  a  great  scholar,  and  was  very  good- 
looking,  and  at  least  half  a  dozen  years  my  senior,  I  was 
carried  as  before  a  magistrate.  He  inquired,  under  a  shed 
in  the  playground,  into  the  particulars  of  my  punishment, 
and  was  pleased  to  express  his  opinion  that  it  was  *'  a  jolly 
shame;"  for  which  I  became  bound  to  him  ever  afterwards. 

*'  What  money  have  you  got,  Copperfield  ?"  he  said,  walk- 
ing aside  with  me  when  he  had  disposed  of  my  affair  in  these 
terms. 

I  told  him  seven  shillings. 

*'  You  had  better  give  it  to  me  to  take  care  of,"  he  said. 
"  At  least,  you  can  if  you  like.  You  needn't  if  you  don't 
like." 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  his  friendly  suggestion,  and 
opening  Peggotty's  purse,  turned  it  upside  down  into  his 
hand. 

"  Do  you  want  to  spend  anything  now  ?"  he  asked  me. 

"  No  thank  you,"  I  replied. 

"  You  can  if  you  like,  you  know,"  said  Steerforth.  "  Say 
the  word." 

"  No  thank  you,  sir,"  I  repeated. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  spend  a  couple  of  shilHngs  or  so, 
in  a  bottle  of  currant  wine  by-and-by,  up  in  the  bedroom  ?" 
said  Steerforth.     "  You  belong  to  my  bedroom,!  find." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  89 

It  certainly  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  but  I  said, 
yes,  I  should  like  that. 

"Very  good,"  said  Steerforth.  "You'll  be  glad  to  spend 
another  shilling  or  so,  in  almond  cakes,  I  dare  say  ?" 

I  said,  yes,  I  should  like  that  too. 

"  And  another  shilling  or  so  in  biscuits,  and  another  in 
fruit,  eh  ?"  said  Steerforth.  "  I  say,  young  Copperfield 
you're  going  it !" 

I  smiled  because  he  smiled,  but  I  was  a  little  troubled  in 
my  mind,  too. 

"  Well !"  said  Steerforth.  "  We  must  make  it  stretch  as 
far  as  we  can;  that's  all.  I'll  do  the  best  in  my  power  for 
you.  I  can  go  out  when  I  like,  and  I'll  smuggle  the  prog 
in."  With  these  words  he  put  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and 
kindly  told  me  not  to  make  myself  uneasy;  he  would  take 
care  it  should  be  all  right. 

He  was  as  .good  as  his  word,  if  that  were  all  right,  which  I 
had  a  secret  misgiving  was  nearly  all  wrong — for  I  feared  it 
was  a  waste  of  my  mother's  two  half-crowns — though  I  had 
preserved  the  piece  of  paper  they  were  wrapped  in:  which 
was  a  precious  saving.  When  we  went  up  stairs  to  bed,  he 
produced  the  whole  seven  shillings'  worth,  and  laid  it  out  on 
my  bed  in  the  moonlight,  saying: 

*'  There  you  are,  young  Copperfield,  and  a  royal  spread 
you've  got!" 

I  couldn't  think  of  doing  the  honors  of  the  feast,  at  my 
time  of  life,  while  he  was  by;  my  hand  shook  at  the  very 
thought  of  it.  I  begged  him  to  do  me  the  favor  of  presid- 
ing; and  my  request  being  seconded  by  the  other  boys  who 
were  in  that  room,  he  acceded  to  it,  and  sat  upon  my  pillow, 
handing  ^ound  the  viands — with  perfect  fairness  I  must  say^ 
— and  dispensing  the  currant  wine  in  a  little  glass  without  a 
foot,  which  was  his  own  property.  As  to  me,  I  sat  on  his 
left  hand,  and  the  rest  were  grouped  about  us,  on  the  nearest 
beds  and  on  the  floor. 

How  well  I  recollect  our  sitting  there,  talking  in  whispers: 
or  their  talking,  and  my  respectfully  listening,  I  ought  rather 
to  say;  the  moonlight  falling  a  little  way  into  the  room, 
through  the  window,  painting  a  pale  window  on  the  floor,  and 
the  greater  part  of  us  in  shadow,  except  when  Steerforth 
dipped  a  match  into  a  phosphorus-box,  when  he  wanted  to 
look  for  anything  on  the  board,  and  shed  a  blue  glare  over 
us  that  was  gone  directly!     A  certain  mysterious  feeling,  con- 


90  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

sequent  on  the  darkness,  the  secrecy  of  the  revel,  and  the 
whisper  in  which  everything  was  said,  steals  over  me  again, 
and  I  listen  to  all  they  tell  me  with  a  vague  feeling  of  sol- 
emnity and  awe,  which  makes  me  glad  that  they  are  all  so 
near,  and  frightens  me  (though  I  feign  to  laugh)  when  Trad- 
dies  pretends  to  see  a  ghost  in  the  corner. 

I  heard  all  kinds  of  things  about  the  school  and  all  be- 
longing to  it.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  had  not  preferred 
his  claim  to  being  a  Tartar  without  reason;  that  he  was  the 
sternest  and  most  severe  of  masters;  that  he  laid  about  him, 
right  and  left,  every  day  of  his  life,  charging  in  among  the 
boys  like  a  trooper,  and  slashing  away  unmercifully.  That  he 
knew  nothing  himself,  but  the  art  of  slashing,  being  more  ig- 
norant (J.  Steerforth  said)  than  the  lowest  boy  in  the  school; 
that  he  had  been,  a  good  many  years  ago,  a  small  hop-dealer 
in  the  borough,  and  had  taken  to  the  schooling  business  after 
being  bankrupt  in  hops,  and  making  away  with  Mrs.  Creakle's 
money.  With  a  good  deal  more  of  that  sort,  which  I  won- 
dered how  they  knew. 

I  heard  that  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  whose  name 
was  Tungay,  was  an  obstinate  barbarian  who  had  formerly 
assisted  in  the  hop  business,  but  had  come  into  the  scholastic 
line  with  Mr.  Creakle,  in  consequence,  as  was  supposed 
among  the  boys,  of  his  having  broken  his  leg  in  Mr.  Creakle's 
service,  and  having  done  a  deal  of  dishonest  work  for  him, 
and  knowing  his  secrets.  I  heard  that  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  Mr.  Creakle,  Tungay  considered  the  whole  estab- 
lishment, masters  and  boys,  as  his  natural  enemies,  and  that 
the  only  delight  of  his  life  was  to  be  sour  and  malicious.  I 
heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  had  a  son,  who  had  not  been  Tun- 
gay's  friend,  and  who,  assisting  in  the  school,  had  once  held 
some  remonstrance  with  his  father  on  an  occasion  when  its 
discipline  was  very  cruelly  exercised,  and  was  supposed,  be- 
sides, to  have  protested  against  his  father's  usage  of  his 
mother.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  had  turned  him  out  of 
doors  in  consequence,  and  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  had 
been  in  a  sad  way  ever  since. 

But  the  greatest  wonder  that  I  heard  of  Mr.  Creakle 
was,  there  being  one  boy  in  the  school  on  whom  he  never 
ventured  to  lay  a  hand,  and  that  boy  being  J.  Steerforth. 
Steerforth  himself  confirmed  this  when  it  was  stated,  and  said 
that  he  should  like  to  begin  to  see  him  do  it.  On  being 
asked  by  a  mild  boy  (not  me)  how  he  would  proceed  if  he 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  9^ 

did  begin  to  see  him  do  it,  he  dipped  a  match  into  his  phos 
phorus  box  on  purpose  to  shed  a  glare  over  his  reply,  and 
said  he  would  commence  by  knocking  him  down  with  a  blow 
on  the  forehead  from  the  seven-and-sixpenny  ink-bottle  that 
was  always  on  the  mantelpiece.  We  sat  in  the  dark  for  some 
time  breathless. 

I  heard  that  Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Mell  were  both  supposed 
to  be  wretchedly  paid;  and  that  when  there  was  hot  and 
cold  meat  for  dinner  at  Mr.  Creakle's  table,  Mr.  Sharp  was 
always  expected  to  say  he  preferred  cold  which  was  again 
corroborated  by  J.  Steerforth,  the  only  parlor-boarder.  I 
heard  that  Mr.  Sharp's  wig  didn't  fit  him;  and  that  he 
needn't  be  so  "  bounceable  " — somebody  else  said"  bump- y 
tious  " — about  it,  because  his  own  red  hair  was  very  plainly 
to  be  seen  behind. 

1  heard  that  one  boy,  who  was  a  coal-merchant's  son, 
came  as  a  set-off  against  the  coal  bill,  and  was  called  on  that 
account  "  Exchange  or  Barter  " — a  name  selected  from  the 
arithmetic  book  as  expresssing  this  arrangement.  I  heard 
that  the  table  beer  was  a  robbery  of  parents,  and  the  pud- 
Sing  an  imposition.  I  heard  that  Miss  Creakle  was  regarded 
by  the  school  in  general  as  being  in  love  with  Steerforth; 
and  I  am  sure,  as  I  sat  in  the  dark,  thinking  of  his  nice . 
voice,  and  his  fine  face,  and  his  easy  manner,  and  his  curl- 
ing hair,  I  thought  it  very  likely.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Mell 
was  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  but  hadn't  a  sixpence  to  bless 
himself  with;  and  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  old  Mrs. 
Mell,  his  mother,  was  as  poor  as  Job.  I  thought  of  my 
breakfast  then,  and  what  had  sounded  like  *'  My  Charley  !" 
but  I  was,  I  am  glad  to  remember,  as  mute  as  a  mouse  about  it. 

The  hearing  of  all  this  and  a  good  deal  more,  outlasted 
the  banquet  some  time.  The  greater  part  of  the  guests  had 
gone  to  bed  as  soon  as  the  eating  and  drinking  were  over; 
and  we,  who  had  remained  whispering  and  listening  half  un- 
dressed, at  last  betook  ourselves  to  bed,  too. 

"Good  night,  young  Copperfield,"  said  Steerforth,  "I'll 
take  care  of  you." 

"You're  very  kind,"  I  gratefully  returned.  "  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,  indeed." 

"  You  haven't  got  a  sister,  have  you  ?"  said  Steerforth, 
yawning. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said   Steerforth.     "  If  you  had  one,   I 


92  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

should  think  she  would  have  been  a  pretty,  timid,  little, 
bright-eyed  sort  of  girl.  I  should  have  liked  to  know  her. 
Good  night,  young  Copperfield." 

"  Good  night,  sir,"  I  replied. 

I  thought  of  him  very  much  after  I  went  to  bed,  and  raised 
myself,  I  recollect,  to  look  at  him  where  he  lay  in  the  moon- 
light with  his  handsome  face  turned  up,  and  his  head  reclin- 
ing easily  on  his  arm.  He  was  a  person  of  great  power  in 
my  eyes;  that  was  of  course  the  reason  of  my  mind  running 
on  him.  No  veiled  future  dimly  glanced  upon  him  in  the 
moonbeams.  There  was  no  shadowy  picture  of  his  footsteps, 
in  the  garden  that  I  dreamed  of — the  garden  that  I  picked 
up  shells  and  pebbles  in,  with  little  Em'ly  all  night. 

CHAPTER  VH. 


School  began  in  earnest  next  day.  A  profound  impres- 
sion was  made  upon  me,  I  remember,  by  the  roar  of  voices 
in  the  school-room  suddenly  becoming  hushed  as  death  when 
Mr.  Creakle  entered  after  breakfast,  and  stood  in  the  door- 
way looking  round  upon  us  like  a  giant  in  a  story-book  sur- 
veying his  captives. 

Tungay  stood  at  Mr.  Creakle's  elbow.  He  had  no  occa- 
sion, I  thought,  to  cry  out  "  Silence  !"  so  ferociously,  for  the 
boys  were  all  struck  speechless  and  motionless. 

Mr.  Creakle  was  seen  to  speak,  and  Tungay  was  heard,  to 
this  effect. 

"  Now,  boys,  this  is  a  new  half.     Take  care  what  you're 

about,  in  this  new  half.     Come  fresh  up  to  the  lessons,  I  advise 

you,  for  I  come  fresh  up  to  the  punishment.     I  won't  flinch. 

It  will  be  of  no  use  your  rubbing  yourselves;  you  won't  rub 

i  the  marks  out  that  I  shall  give  you.     Now  get  to  work,  every 

\boy!" 

)  When  this  dreadful  exordium  was  over,  and  Tungay  had 
stumped  out  again,  Mr.  Creakle  came  to  where  I  sat,  and 
told  me  that  if  I  were  famous  for  biting,  he  was  famous  for 
biting,  too.  He  then  showed  me  the  cane,  and  asked  me 
what  I  thought  of  that^  for  a  tooth  ?  Was  it  a  sharp  tooth, 
hey  ?  Was  it  a  double  tooth,  hey  ?  Had  it  a  deep  prong, 
hey  ?  Did  it  bite,  hey  ?  Did  it  bite?  At  every  question  he  gave 
me  a  fleshy  cut  with  it  that  made  me  writhe;  so  I  was  very  soon 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  93 

made  free  of  Salem  House  (as  Steerforth  said),  and  very 
soon  in  tears  also. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  say  these  were  special  marks  of  dis- 
tinction, which  only  I  received.  On  the  contrary,  a  large 
majority  of  the  boys  (especially,  the  smaller  ones)  were  visited 
with  similar  instances  of  notice,  as  Mr.  Creakle  made  the 
round  of  the  schoolroom.  Half  the  establishment  was  writh- 
ing and  crying,  before  the  day's  work  began;  and  how  much 
of  it  had  writhed  and  cried  before  the  day's  work  was  over, 
I  am  really  afraid  to  recollect,  lest  I  should  seem  to  exag- 
gerate. 

I  should  think  there  never  can  have  been  a  man  who  en- 
joyed his  profession  more  than  Mr.  Creakle  did.  He  had  a 
delight  in  cutting  at  the  boys,  which  was  like  the  satisfac- 
tion of  a  craving  appetite.  I  am  confident  that  he  couldn't 
resist  a  chubby  boy,  especially;  that  there  was  a  fascination 
in  such  a  subject,  which  made  him  restless  in  his  mind,  un- 
til he  had  scored  and  marked  him  for  the  day.  I  was  chubby 
myself,  and  ought  to  know.  I  am  sure  when  I  think  of  the  > 
fellow  now,  my  blood  rises  against  him  with  the  disinterested  / 
indignation  I  should  feel  if  I  could  have  known  all  about 
him  without  having  ever  been  in  his  power;  but  it  rises 
hotly,  because  I  know  him  to  have  been  an  incapable  brute, 
who  had  no  more  right  to  be  possessed  of  the  great  trust  he 
held,  than  to  be  Lord  High  Admiral,  or  Commander-in- 
chief:  in  either  of  which  capacities,  it  is  probable  that  he 
would  have  done  infinitely  less  mischief.  \ 

Miserable  little  propitiators    of   a  remorseless  idol,  how"^ 
abject  we  were  to  him  !  what  a  launch  in  life  I  think  it  now,  / 
on  looking  back,  to  be  so  mean  and  servile  to  a  man  of  sucli/ 
parts  and  pretensions  ! 

Here  I  sit  at  the  desk  again,  watching  his  eye — humbly 
watching  his  eye,  as  he  rules  a  ciphering-book  for  another 
victim  whose  hands  have  just  been  flattened  by  that  identi- 
cal ruler,  and  who  is  trying  to  wipe  the  sting  out  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief.  I  have  plenty  to  do.  I  don't  watch  \ 
his  eye  in  idleness,  but  because  I  am  morbidly  attracted  to 
it,  in  a  dread  desire  to  know  what  he  will  do  next,  and 
whether  it  will  be  my  turn  to  suffer,  or  somebody  else's.  A 
lane  of  small  boys  beyond  me,  with  the  same  interest  in  his 
eye,  watch  it  too.  I  think  he  knows  it,  though  he  pretends 
he  don't.  He  makes  dreadful  mouths  as  he  rules  the 
ciphering-book;  and  now  he  throws  his  eye  sideways  down 


94  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

our  lane,  and  we  all  droop  over  our  books  and  tremble.  A 
moment  afterwards  we  are  again  eyeing  him.  An  unhappy 
culprit,  found  guilty  of  imperfect  exercise,  approaches  at 
his  command.  The  culprit  falters  excuses,  and  professes  a 
determination  to  do  better  to-morrow.  Mr.  Creakle  cuts  a 
joke  before  he  beats  him,  and  we  laugh  at  it, — miserable 
little  dogs,  we  laugh,  with  our  visages  as  white  as  ashes,  and 
our  hearts  sinking  into  our  boots. 

Here  I  sit  at  the  desk  again,  on  a  drowsy  summer  after- 
noon. A  buzz  and  hum  go  up  around  me,  as  if  the  boys 
were  so  many  blue-bottles.  A  cloggy  sensation  of  the  luke- 
warm fat  of  meat  is  upon  me  (we  dined  an  hour  or  two  ago), 
and  my  head  is  as  heavy  as  so  much  lead.  I  would  give  the 
world  to  go  to  sleep.  I  sit  with  my  eye  on  Mr.  Creakle, 
blinking  at  him  like  a  young  owl;  when  sleep  overpowers 
me  for  a  minute,  he  still  looms  through  my  slumber,  ruling 
those  ciphering-books;  until  he  softly  comes  behind  me  and 
wakes  me  to  plainer  perception  of  him,  with  a  red  ridge 
across  my  back. 

Here  I  am  in  the  playground,  with  my  eye  still  fascinated 
by  him,  though  I  can't  see  him.  The  window  at  a  little 
distance  from  which  I  know  he  is  having  his  dinner,  stands 
for  him,  and  I  eye  that  instead.  If  he  shows  his  face  near 
it,  mine  assumes  an  imploring  and  submissive  expression. 
If  he  looks  out  through  the  glass,  the  boldest  boy  (Steerforth 
excepted)  stops  in  the  middle  of  a  shout  or  yell,  and  be- 
comes contemplative.  One  day,  Traddles  (the  most  unfor- 
tunate boy  in  the  world)  *breaks  that  window  accidentally, 
with  a  ball.  I  shudder  at  this  moment  with  the  tremendous 
sensation  of  seeing  it  done,  and  feeling  that  the  ball  has 
bounded  on  to  Mr.  Creakle's  sacred  head. 

Poor  Traddles  !  In  a  tight  sky-blue  suit  that  made  his 
arms  and  legs  like  German  sausages,  or  roly-poly  puddings, 
he  was  the  merriest  and  most  miserable  of  all  the  boys.  He 
was  always  being  caned — I  think  he  was  caned  every  day 
that  half-year,  except  one  holiday  Monday  when  he  was  only 
ryler'd  on  both  hands — and  was  always  going  to  write  to  his 
uncle  about  it,  and  never  did.  After  laying  his  head  on  the 
desk  for  a  little  while,  he  would  cheer  up,  somehow,  begin 
to  laugh  again,  and  draw  skeletons  all  over  his  slate,  before 
his  eyes  were  dry.  I  used  at  first  to  wonder  what  comfort 
Traddles  found  in  drawing  skeletons;  and  for  some  time 
looked  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  hermit,  who  reminded  himself 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  95 

by  those  symbols  of  mortality  that  caning  couldn't  last  for 
ever.  But  I  believe  he  only  did  it  because  they  were  easy, 
and  didn't  want  any  features. 

He  was  very  honorable,  Traddles  was;  and  held  it  as  a 
solemn  duty  in  the  boys  to  stand  by  one  another.  He  suf- 
fered for  this  on  several  occasions;  and  particularly  once, 
when  Steerforth  laughed  in  church,  and  the  Beadle  thought 
it  was  Traddles,  and  took  him  out.  I  see  him  now,  going 
away  in  custody,  despised  by  the  congregation.  Pie  never 
said  who  was  the  real  offender,  though  he  smarted  for  it 
next  day,  and  was  imprisoned  so  many  hours  that  he  came 
forth  with  a  whole  churchyard-full  of  skeletons  swarming  all 
over  his  Latin  Dictionary.  But  he  had  his  reward.  Steer- 
forth  said  there  was  nothing  of  the  sneak  in  Traddles,  and 
we  all  felt  that  to  be  the  highest  praise.  For  my 
part,  I  could  have  gone  through  a  good  deal  (though  I  was 
much  less  brave  than  Traddles,  and  nothing  like  so  old)  to 
have  won  such  a  recompense. 

To  see  Steerforth  walk  to  church  before  us,  arm-in-arm 
with  Miss  Creakle,  was  one  of  the  great  sights  of  my  life.  I 
didn't  think  Miss  Creakle  equal  to  little  Em'ly  in  point  of 
beauty,  and  I  didn't  love  her  (I  didn't  dare);  but  I  thought 
her  a  young  lady  of  extraordinary  attractions,  and  in  point 
of  gentility  not  to  be  surpassed.  When  Steerforth,  in  white 
trousers,  carried  her  parasol  for  her,  I  felt  proud  to  know 
him;  and  believed  that  she  could  not  choose  but  adore  him 
with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Mell  were  both 
notable  personages  in  my  eyes;  but  Steerforth  was  to  them 
what  the  sun  was  to  two  stars. 

Steerforth  continued  his  protection  of  me,  and  proved  a 
very  useful  friend;  since  nobody  dared  to  annoy  one  whom 
he  honored  with  his  countenance.  He  couldn't — or  at  all 
events,  he  didn't — defend  me  from  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was 
very  severe  with  me;  but  whenever  I  had  been  treated  worse 
than  usual,  he  always  told  me  that  I  wanted  a  little  of  his 
pluck,  and  that  he  wouldn't  have  stood  it  himself;  which  I 
felt  he  intended  for  encouragement,  and  considered  to  be 
very  kind  of  him.  There  was  one  advantage,  and  only  one 
that  I  knew  of,  in  Mr.  Creakle's  severity.  He  found  my 
placard  in  his  way,  when  he  came  up  or  down  behind  the  form 
on  which  I  sat,  and  wanted  to  make  a  cut  at  me  in  passing; 
for  this  reason  it  was  soon  taken  off,  and  I  saw  it  no  more. 

An   accidental  circumstance   cemented  the  intimacy   be- 


9<5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

tween  Steerforth  and  me,  in  a  manner  that  inspired  me  with 
great  pride  and  satisfaction,  though  it  sometimes  led  to  in 
convenience.  It  happened  on  one  occasion,  when  he  was 
doing  me  the  honor  of  talking  to  me  in  the  playground,  that 
I  hazarded  the  observation  that  something  or  somebody — I 
forget  what  now — was  like  something  or  somebody  in  Pere- 
grine Pickle.  He  said  nothing  at  the  time;  but  when  I  was 
going  to  bed  at  night,  asked  me  if  I  had  got  that  book. 

I  told  him  no,  and  explained  how  it  was  that  I  had  read 
it,  and  all  those  other  books  of  which  I  have  made  mention. 

"  And  do  you  recollect  them  ?"  Steerforth  said. 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  replied;  "  I  had  a  good  memory,  and  I  be- 
lieved I  recollected  them  very  well." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what  young  Copperfield,"  said  Steer- 
forth, "  you  shall  tell  'em  to  me.  I  can't  get  to  sleep  very 
early  at  night,  and  I  generally  wake  rather  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. We'll  go  over  'em  one  after  another.  We'll  make  some 
regular  Arabian  Nights  of  it." 

I  felt  extremely  flattered  by  this  arrangement,  and  we 
commenced  carrying  it  into  execution  that  very  evening. 
What  ravages  I  committed  on  my  favorite  authors  in  the 
course  of  my  interpretation  of  them,  I  am  not  in  a  condition 
to  say,  and  should  be  very  unwilling  to  know;  but  I  had  a 
profound  faith  in  them,  and  I  had,  to  the  best  of  my  belief 
a  simple,  earnest  manner  of  narrating  what  I  did  narrate; 
and  these  qualities  went  a  long  way. 

The  drawback  was,  that  I  was  often  sleepy  at  night,  or 
out  of  spirits  and  indisposed  to  resume  the  story;  and  then 
it  was  rather  hard  work,  and  it  must  be  done;  for  to  disap- 
point or  displease  Steerforth  was  of  course  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. In  the  morning,  too,  when  I  felt  weary  and  should 
have  enjoyed  another  hour's  repose  very  much,  it  was  a  tire- 
some thing  to  be  roused,  like  the  Sultana  Scheherazade,  and 
forced  into  a  long  story  before  the  getting-up  bell  rang;  but 
Steerforth  was  resolute;  and  as  he  explained  to  me,  in  re- 
turn, my  sums  and  exercises,  and  anything  in  my  tasks  that 
was  too  hard  for  me,  I  was  no  loser  by  the  transaction.  Let 
me  do  myself  justice,  however.  I  was  moved  by  no  in- 
terested or  selfish  motive,  nor  was  I  moved  by  fear  of  him. 
I  admired  and  loved  him,  and  his  approval  was  return 
enough.  It  was  so  precious  to  me  that  I  look  back  on  these 
trifles,  now,  with  an  aching  heart. 

Steerforth  was  considerate,   too;  and  showed  his  consid- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  97 

eration,  in  one  particular  instance,  in  an  unflinching  man- 
ner that  was  a  Httle  tantaUzing,  I  suspect,  to  poor  Traddles 
and  the  rest.  Peggotty's  promised  letter — what  a  comfort- 
able letter  it  was  ! — arrived  before  "  the  half  "  was  many 
weeks  old;  and  with  it  a  cake  in  a  perfect  nest  of  oranges, 
and  two  bottles  of  cowslip  wine.  This  treasure,  as  in  duty 
bound,  I  laid  at  the  feet  of  Steerforth,  and  begged  him  to 
dispense. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield,"  said  he; 
"  the  wine  shall  be  kept  to  wet  your  whistle  when  you  are 
story-telling." 

I  blushed  at  the  idea,  and  begged  him,  in  my  modesty, 
not  to  think  of  it.  But  he  said  he  had  observed  I  was  some- 
times hoarse — a  little  roopy  was  his  exact  expression — and  it 
should  be,  every  drop,  devoted  to  the  purpose  he  had  men- 
tioned. Accordingly,  it  was  locked  up  in  his  box,  and  drawn 
off  by  himself  in  a  phial,  and  administered  to  me  through  a 
piece  of  quill  in  the  cork,  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  in  want 
of  a  restorative.  Sometimes,  to  make  it  a  more  sovereign 
specific,  he  was  so  kind  as  to  squeeze  orange  juice  into  it,  or 
to  stir  it  up  with  ginger,  or  dissolve  a  peppermint  drop  in  it; 
and  although  I  cannot  assert  that  the  flavor  was  improved  by 
these  experiments,  or  that  it  was  exactly  the  compound  one 
would  have  chosen  for  a  stomachic,  the  last  thing  at  night 
and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  I  drank  it  gratefully  and 
was  very  sensible  of  his  attention. 

We  seem,  to  me,  to  have  been  months  over  Peregrine,  and 
months  more  over  the  other  stories.  The  institution  never 
flagged  for  want  of  a  story,  I  am  certain;  and  the  wine  lasted 
out  almost  as  well  as  the  matter.  Poor  Traddles — I  never 
think  of  that  boy  but  with  a  strange  disposition  to  laugh,  and 
with  tears  in  my  eyes — was  a  sort  of  chorus,  in  general;  and 
affected  to  be  convulsed  with  mirth  at  the  comic  parts,  and 
to  be  overcome  with  fear  when  there  was  any  passage  of  an 
alarming  character  in  the  narrative.  This  rather  put  me  out, 
very  often.  It  was  a  great  jest  of  his,  I  recollect,  to  pre- 
tend that  he  couldn't  Leep  his  teeth  from  chattering  when- 
ever mention  was  made  of  an  Alguazil  in  connexion  with  the 
adventures  of  Gil  Bias;  and  I  remember,  when  Gil  Bias  met 
the  captain  of  the  robbers  in  Madrid,  this  unlucky  joker 
counterfeited  such  an  ague  of  terror,  that  he  was  overheard 
by  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was  prowling  about  the  passage,  and 
handsomely  flogged  for  disorderly  conduct  in  the  bedroom. 


98  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Whatever  I  had  within  me  that  was  romantic  and  dreamy, 
was  encouraged  by  so  much  story-telling  in  the  dark;  and 
in  that  respect  the  pursuit  may  not  have  been  very  profitable 
to  me.  But  the  being  cherished  as  a  kind  of  plaything  in 
my  room,  and  the  consciousness  that  this  accomplishment  of 
mine  was  bruited  about  among  the  boys,  and  attracted  a 
good  deal  of  notice  to  me  though  I  was  the  youngest  there, 
stimulated  me  to  exertion.  In  a  school  carried  on  by  sheer 
cruelty,  whether  it  is  presided  over  by  a  dunce  or  not,  there 
is  not  likely  to  be  much  learnt.  I  believe  our  boys  were, 
generally,  as  ignorant  a  set  as  any  schoolboys  in  existence; 
they  were  too  much  troubled  and  knocked  about  to  learn; 
they  could  no  more  do  that  to  advantage,  than  any  one  can 
do  anything  to  advantage  in  a  life  of  constant  misfortune, 
torment,  and  worry.  But  my  little  vanity,  and  Steerforth's 
help  urged  me  on  somehow;  and  without  saving  me  from 
much,  if  anything,  in  the  way  of  punishment,  made  me,  for 
the  time  I  was  there,  an  exception  to  the  general  body,  in- 
somuch that  I  did  steadily  pick  up  some  crumbs  of  know- 
ledge. 

In  this  I  was  much  assisted  by  Mr.  Mell,  who  had  a  lik- 
ing for  me  that  I  am  grateful  to  remember.  It  always  gave 
me  pain  to  observe  that  Steerforth  treated  him  with  syste- 
vinatic  disparagement,  and  seldom  lost  an  occasion  of  wound- 
ing his  feelings,  or  inducing  others  to  do  so.  This  troubled 
me  the  more  for  a  long  time,  because  I  had  soon  told  Steer- 
forth,  from  whom  I  could  no  more  keep  such  a  secret  than 
I  could  keep  a  cake  or  any  other  tangible  possession,  about 
the  two  old  women  Mr.  Mell  had  taken  me  to  see;  and  I  was 
always  afraid  that  Steerforth  would  let  it  out,  and  twit  him 
with  it. 

We  little  thought  any  one  of  us,  I  dare  say,  when  I  ate  my 
breakfast  that  first  morning,  and  went  to  sleep  under  the 
shadow  of  the  peacock's  feathers  to  the  sound  of  the  flute, 
what  consequences  would  come  of  the  introduction  into 
those  alms-houses  of  my  insignificant  person.  But  the  visit 
had  its  unforeseen  consequences;  and  of  a  serious  sort,  too, 
in  their  way. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Creakle  kept  the  house  from  indis- 
position, which  naturally  diffused  a  lively  joy  through  the 
school,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  the  course  of  the 
morning's  work.  The  great  relief  and  satisfaction  ex- 
perienced by  the  boys  made  them  difficult  to  manage;  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  99 

though  the  dreaded  Tungay  brought  his  wooden  leg  in  twice 
or  thrice,  and  took  notes  of  the  principal  offenders'  names, 
no  great  impression  was  made  by  it,  as  they  were  pretty 
sure  of  getting  into  trouble  to-morrow  do  what  they  would, 
and  thought  it  wise,  no  doubt,  to  enjoy  themselves  to-day. 

It  was,  properly,  a  half -holiday;  being  Saturday.  But  as 
the  noise  in  the  playground  would  have  disturbed  Mr.  Creakle, 
and  the  weather  was  not  favorable  for  going  out  walking,  we 
were  ordered  into  school  in  the  afternoon,  and  set  some 
lighter  tasks  than  usual,  which  were  made  for  the  occasion. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  week  on  which  Mr.  Sharp  went  out  to 
get  his  wig  curled;  so  Mr.  Mell,  who  always  did  the  drudgery, 
whatever  it  was,  kept  school  by  himself. 

If  I  could  associate  the  idea  of  a  bull  or  a  bear  with  any 
one  so  mild  as  Mr.  Mell,  I  should  think  of  him,  in  connexion 
with  that  afternoon  when  the  uproar  was  at  its  height,  as 
one  of  those  animals,  baited  by  a  thousand  dogs.  I  recall 
him  bending  his  aching  head,  supported  on  his  bony  hand, 
over  the  book  on  his  desk,  and  wretchedly  endeavoring  to 
get  on  with  his  tiresome  work,  amidst  an  uproar  that  might 
have  made  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  giddy. 
Boys  started  in  and  out  of  their  places,  playing  at  puss  in 
the  corner  with  other  boys;  there  were  laughing  boys,  sing- 
ing boys,  talking  boys,  dancing  boys,  howling  boys;  boys 
shuffled  with  their  feet,  boys  whirled  about  him,  grinning, 
making  faces,  mimicking  him  behind  his  back  and  before  his 
eyes;  mimicking  his  poverty,  his  boots,  his  coat,  his  mother, 
everything  belonging  to  him  that  they  should  have  had  con- 
sideration for.    " 

"  Silence  !"  cried  Mr.  Mell,  suddenly  rising  up,  and  strik- 
ing his  desk  with  the  book.  "What  does  this  mean!  It's 
impossible  to  bear  it.  It's  maddening.  How  can  you  do  it 
to  me,  boys  ?" 

It  was  my  book  that  he  struck  his  desk  with;  and  as  I 
stood  beside  him,  following  his  eye  as  it  glanced  round  the 
room,  I  saw  the  boys  all  stop,  some  suddenly  surprised, 
some  half  afraid,  and  some  sorry  perhaps. 

Steerforth's  place  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  school,  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  long  room.  He  was  lounging  with  his 
back  against  the  wall,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
looked  at  Mr.  Mell  with  his  mouth  shut  up  as  if- he  were 
whistling,  when  Mr.  Mell  looked  at  him. 

"  Silence,  Mr.  Steerforth  !"  said  Mr.  Mell. 


\ 


100  DAVID  eOPPERFIELD. 

"  Silence  yourself,"  said  Steerforth,  turning  red,  "  Whom 
are  you  talking  to  ?" 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Mell. 

"Sit  down  yourself,"  said  Steerforth,  "and  mind  your 
business." 

There  was  a  titter,  and  some  applause;  but  Mr.  Mell 
was  so  white,  that  silence  immediately  succeeded;  and 
one  boy,  who  had  darted  out  behind  him  to  imitate  his 
mother  again,  changed  his  mind,  and  pretended  to  want  a 
pen  mended. 

"  If  you  think,  Steerforth,"  said  Mr.  Mell,  "  that  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  the  power  you  can  establish  over  any  mind 
here  " — he  laid  his  hand,  without  considering  what  he  did 
(as  I  supposed),  upon  my  head — "  or  that  I  have  not  ob- 
served you,  within  a  few  minutes,  urging  your  juniors  on  to 
every  sort  of  outrage  against  me,  you  are  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  give  myself  the  trouble  of  thinking  at  all  about 
you,"  said  Steerforth,  coolly;  "  so  I'm  not  mistaken,  as  it 
happens." 

"  And  when  you  make  use  of  your  position  of  favoritism 
here,  sir,"  pursued  Mr.  Mell,  with  his  lip  trembling  very 
much,  "  to  insult  a  gentleman — " 

"  A  what  ? — where  is  he .''"  said  Steerforth. 

Here  somebody  cried  out,  "  Shame,  J.  Steerforth  !  Too 
bad  !"  It  was  Traddles;  whom  Mr.  Mell  instantly  discom- 
fited by  bidding  him  hold  his  tongue. 

— "  To  insult  one  who  is  not  fortunate  in  life,  sir,  and 
who  never  gave  you  the  least  offence,  and  the  many  reasons 
for  not  insulting  whom  you  are  old  enough  and  wise  enough 
to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Mell,  with  his  lip  trembling  more 
and  more,  "  you  commit  a  mean  and  base  action.  You  can 
sit  down  or  stand  up  as  you  please,  sir.     Copperfield,  go  on." 

"  Young  Copperfield,"  said  Steerforth,  coming  forward  up 
the  room,  "  stop  a  bit.  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Mell,  once  for 
all.  When  you  take  the  liberty  of  calling  me  mean  or  base, 
or  anything  of  that  sort,  you  are  an  impudent  beggar.  You 
are  always  a  beggar,  you  know;  but  when  you  do  that,  you 
are  an  impudent  beggar." 

I  am  not  clear  whether  he  was  going  to  strike  Mr.  Mell, 
or  Mr.  Mell  was  going  to  strike  him,  or  there  was  any  such 
intention  on  either  side.  I  saw  a  rigidity  come  upon  the 
whole  school  asif  they  had  been  turned  into  stone,  and  found 
Mr.  Creakle  in  the  midst  of  us,  with  Tungay  at  his  side,  and 


DAVID  COPPERI^IfiLp.  ici 

Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  looking  in  at  the  door  as  if  they  were 
frightened.  Mr.  Mell,  with  his  elbows  on  his  desk  and  his 
face  in  his  hands,  sat,  for  some  moments,  quite  still. 

*'  Mr.  Mell,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  shaking  him  by  the  arm; 
and  his  whisper  was  so  audible  now,  that  Tungay  felt  it  un- 
necessary to  repeat  his  words;  "  you  have  not  forgotten 
yourself,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  no,"  returned  the  Master,  showing  his  face,  and 
shaking  his  head,  and  rubbing  his  hands  in  great  agitation. 
"  No,  sir.  No.  I  have  remembered  myself,  I — no,  Mr.  Creakle 
I  have  not  forgotten  myself,  I — I  have  remembered  myself, 
sir.  I — I — could  wish  you  had  remembered  me  a  little 
sooner,  Mr.  Creakle.  It — it  would  have  been  more  kind, 
sir,  more  just,  sir.     It  wouldliave  saved  me  something,  sir." 

Mr.  Creakle,  looking  hard  at  Mr.  Mell,  put  his  hand  on 
Tungay's  shoulder,  and  got  his  feet  upon  the  form  close  by, 
and  sat  upon  the  desk.  After  still  looking  hard  at  Mr.  Mell 
from  his  throne,  as  he  shook  his  head,  and  rubbed  his  hands, 
and  remained  in  the  same  state  of  agitation,  Mr.  Creakle 
turned  to  Mr.  Steerforth,  and  said  : 

"  Now,  sir,  as  he  don't  condescend  to  tell  me,  what  is  this  ?" 

Steerforth  evaded  the  question  for  a  little  while;  looking 
in  scorn  and  anger  on  his  opponent,  and  remaining  silent. 
I  could  not  help  thinking  even  in  that  interval,  I  remember, 
what  a  noble  fellow  he  was  in  appearance,  and  how  homely 
and  plain  Mr.  Mell  looked  opposed  to  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  talking  about  favorites,  then  !" 
said  Steerforth  at  length. 

"  Favorites  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Creakle,  with  the  veins  in  his 
forehead  swelling  quickly.     "  Who  talked  about  favorites  ?" 

"  He  did,"  said  Steerforth. 

"  And  pray,  what  did  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?"  demanded 
Mr.  Creakle,  turning  angrily  on  his  assistant. 

"  I  meant,  Mr.  Creakle,"  he  returned  in  alow  voice,  "  as 
I  said;  that  no  pupil  had  a  right  to  avail  himself  of  his  po- 
sition of  favoritism  to  degrade  me." 

"  To  degrade  j^z^  f  said  Mr.  Creakle.  "My  stars!  But 
give  me  leave  to  ask  you,  Mr.  What's-your-name:"  and  here 
Mr.  Creakle  folded  his  arms,  cane  and  all,  upon  his  chest, 
and  made  such  a  knot  of  his  brows  that  his  little  eyes  were 
hardly  visible  below  them;  "  whether,  when  you  talked  about 
favorites,  you  showed  proper  respect  to  me?  To  me,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Creakle,  darting  his  head  at  him  suddenly,  and 


102  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

drawing  it  back  again,  "  the  principal  of  this  establishment, 
and  your  employer." 

"  It  was  not  judicious,  sir,  I  am  willing  to  admit,"  said 
Mr.  Mell.     "  I  should  not  have  done  so,  if  I  had  been  cool." 

Here  Steerforth  struck  in. 

"  Then  he  said  I  was  mean,  and  then  he  said  I  was  base, 
and  then  I  called  him  a  beggar.  If  I  had  been  cool  perhaps 
I  shouldn't  have  called  him  a  beggar.  But  I  did,  and  I  am 
ready  to  take  the  consequences  of  it." 

Without   considering,  perhaps,  whether  there   were   any 
consequences  to  be  taken,  I  felt  quite  in  a  glow  at  this  gal- 
lant speech.  _  It  made  an  impression  on  the  boys  too,  for  there 
X  was  a  low  stir  among  them,  though  no  one  spoke  a  word. 
'        *'  I  am  surprised,  Steerforth — although  your  candor  does 
you  honor,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  "does  you  honor,  certainly — ■ 
,1  am  surprised,  Steerforth,  I  must  say,  that  you  should  at- 
^  tach  such  an  epithet  to  any  person  employed  and  paid  in 
Salem  House,  sir." 

Steerforth  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  That's  not  an  answer,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  "  to  my 
remark.     I  expect  more  than  that  from  you,  Steerforth.'' 

If  Mr.  Mell  looked  homely,  in  my  eyes,  before  the  hand- 
some boy,  it  Avould  be  quite  impossible  to  say  how  homely 
Mr.  Creakle  looked. 

"  Let  him  deny  it!"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Deny  that  he  is  a  beggar,  Steerforth?  "  cried  Mr.  Creakle. 
"  Why,  where  does  he  go  a  begging  ? " 

"  If  he  is  not  a  beggar  himself,  his  near  relation's  one," 
said  Steerforth.     "  It's  all  the  same." 

He  glanced  at  me,  and  Mr.  Mell's  hand  gently  patted  me 
upon  the  shoulder.  I  looked  up,  with  a  flush  upon  my  face 
and  remorse  in  my  heart,  but  Mr.  Mell's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Steerforth.  He  continued  to  pat  me  kindly  on  the  shoulder, 
but  he  looked  at  him. 

"  Since  you  expect  me,  Mr.  Creakle,  to  justify  myself," 
said  Steerforth,  "  and  to  say  what  I  mean, — what  I  have  to 
say  is,  that  his  mother  lives  on  charity  in  an  alms-house." 

Mr.  Mell  still  looked  at  him,  and  still  patted  me  kindly 
on  the  shoulder,  and  said  to  himself,  in  a  whisper,  if  I  heard 
right :  "Yes,  I  thought  so." 

Mr.  Creakle  turned  to  his  assistant,  with  a  severe  frown 
and  labored  politeness. 

"  Now,   you   hear   what   this  gentleman   says,  Mr.  Mell. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  103 

Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  to  set  him  right  before 
the  assembled  school." 

"  He  is  right,  sir,  without  correction,"  returned  Mr.  Mell, 
in  the  midst  of  a  dead  silence  ;  "  what  he  has  said  is  true." 

"Be  so  good  then  as  declare  publicly,  will  you,"  said  Mr. 
Creakle,  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  and  rolling  his  eyes 
round  the  school,  "  whether  it  ever  came  to  my  knowledge 
until  this  moment  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not  directly,"  he  returned. 

"  Why,  you  know  not,"  said  Mr.  Creakle.    "  Don't  you. 


man 


"  I  apprehend  you  never  supposed  my  worldly  circum- 
stances to  be  very  good,"  replied  the  assistant.  "You 
know  what  my  position  is,  and  always  has  been,  here." 

"I  apprehend,  if  you  come  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Creakle, 
with  his  veins  swelling  again  bigger  than  ever,  "  that  you've 
been  in  a  wrong  position  altogether,  and  mistook  this  for  a 
charity  school.  Mr.  Mell,  we'll  part  if  you  please.  The 
sooner  the  better." 

"  There  is  no  time,"  answered  Mr.  Mell,  rising,  "  like  the 
present." 

"  Sir,  to  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

*'  I  take  my  leave  of  you,  Mr.  Creakle,  and  of  all  of  you," 
said  Mr.  Mell,  glancing  round  the  room,  and  again  patting 
me  gently  on  the  shoulder.  "James  Steerforth,  the  best 
wish  I  can  leave  you  is  that  you  may  come  to  be  ashamed 
of  what  you  have  done  to-day.  At  present  I  would  prefer 
to  see  you  anything  rather  than  a  friend,  to  me,  or  to  any 
one  in  whom  I  feel  an  interest." 

Once  more  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  then 
taking  his  flute  and  a  few  books  from  his  desk,  and  leaving 
the  key  in  it  for  his  successor,  he  went  out  of  the  school, 
with  his  property  under  his  arm.  Mr.  Creakle  then  made 
a  speech,  through  Tungay,  in  which  he  thanked  Steerforth 
for  asserting  (though  perhaps  too  warmly)  the  independence 
and  respectability  of  Salem  House  ;  and  which  he  wound 
up  by  shaking  hands  with  Steerforth,  while  we  gave  three 
cheers — I  did  not  quite  know  what  for,  but  I  supposed  for 
Steerforth,  and  so  joined  in  them  ardently,  though  I  felt 
miserable.  Mr.  Creakle  then  caned  Tommy  Traddles  for 
being  discovered  in  tears,  instead  of  cheers,  on  account 
of  Mr.  Mell's  departure  ;  and  went  back  to  his  sofa,  or  his 
bed,  or  wherever  he  had  come  from. 


I04  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

We  were  left  to  ourselves  now,  and  looked  very  blank,  I 
recollect,  on  one  another.  For  myself,  I  felt  so  much  self- 
reproach  and  contrition  for  my  part  in  what  had  happened, 
that  nothing  would  have  enabled  me  to  keep  back  my  tears 
but  the  fear  that  Steerforth,  who  often  looked  at  me,  I  saw, 
might  think  it  unfriendly — or,  I  should  rather  say,  consider- 
ing our  relative  ages,  and  the  feeling  with  which  I  regarded 
him,  undutiful — if  I  showed  the  emotion  which  distressed 
me.  He  was  very  angry  with  Traddles,  and  said  he  was 
glad  he  had  caught  it. 

Poor  Traddles,  who  had  passed  the  stage  of  lying  with  his 
head  upon  the  desk,  and  was  relieving  himself  as  usual  with 
a  burst  of  skeletons,  said  he  didn't  care.  Mr,  Mell  was  ill- 
used. 

"  Who  has  ill-used  him,  you  girl  ?  "  said  Steerforth. 

"  Why,  you  have,"  returned  Traddles. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  said  Steerforth. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  retorted  Traddles.  "  Hurt  his 
feelings  and  lost  him  his  situation." 

*'  His  feelings  !  "  repeated  Steerforth,  disdainfully.  *'  His 
feelings  will  soon  get  the  better  of  it,  I'll  be  bound.  His 
feelings  are  not  like  yours.  Miss  Traddles.  As  to  his  situa- 
tion— which  was  a  precious  one,  wasn't  it  ? — do  you  suppose 
I  am  not  going  to  write  home,  and  take  care  that  he  gets 
some  money  ?    Polly  ?  " 

We  thought  this  intention  very  noble  in  Steerforth,  whose 
mother  was  a  widow,  and  rich,  and  would  do  almost  any- 
thing, it  was  said,  that  he  asked  her.  We  were  all  extremely 
glad  to  see  Traddles  so  put  down,  and  exalted  Steerforth  to 
the  skies  :  especially  when  he  told  us,  as  he  condescended  to 
do,  that  what  he  had  done  had  been  done  expressly  for  us, ' 
and  for  our  cause  ;  and  that  he  had  conferred  a  great  boon 
upon  us  by  unselfishly  doing  it. 

But  I  must  say  that  when  I  was  going  on  with  a  story  in 
the  dark  that  night,  Mr.  Mell's  old  flute  seemed  more  than 
once  to  sound  mournfully  in  my  ears  ;  and  that  when  at  last 
Steerforth  was  tired,  and  I  lay  down  in  my  bed,  I  fancied  it 
playing  so  sorrowfully  somewhere,  that  I  was  quite  wretched. 

I  soon  forgot  him  in  the  contemplation  of  Steerforth,  who, 
in  an  easy  amateur  way,  and  without  any  book  (he  seemed 
to  me  to  know  everything  by  heart),  took  some  of  his  classes 
until  a  new  master  was  found.  The  new  master  came  from 
a  grammar-school  ;  and   before    he  entered  on  his  duties, 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  105 

dined  in  the  parlor  one  day  to  be  introduced  to  Steerforth. 
Steerforth  approved  of  him  highly,  and  told  us  he  was  a 
brick.  Without  exactly  understanding  what  learned  dis- 
tinction was  meant  by  this,  I  respected  him  greatly  for  it, 
and  had  no  doubt  whatever  of  his  superior  knowledge  : 
though  he  never  took  the  pains  with  me — not  that  I  was 
anybody — that  Mr.  Mell  had  taken. 

There  was  only  one  other  event  in  this  half-year,  out  of 
the  daily  school-life,  that  made  an  impression  on  me  which 
still  survives.     It  survives  for  many  reasons. 

One  afternoon  when  we  were  all  harassed  into  a  state  of 
dire  confusion,  and  Mr.  Creakle  was  laying  about  him  dread- 
fully, Tungay  came  in,  and  called  out  in  his  usual  strong 
way  :     *'  Visitors  for  Copperfield  !  " 

A  few  words  were  interchanged  between  him  and  Mr. 
Creakle,  as,  who  the  visitors  were,  and  what  room  they  were 
to  be  shown  into  ;  and  then  I,  who  had,  according  to  cus- 
tom, stood  up  on  the  announcement  being  made,  and  felt 
quite  faint  with  astonishment,  was  told  to  go  by  the  back 
stairs  and  get  a  clean  frill  on,  before  I  repaired  to  the  din- 
ing-room. These  orders  I  obeyed,  in  such  a  flutter  and 
hurry  of  my  young  spirits  as  I  had  never  known  before  ;  and 
when  I  got  to  the  parlor-door,  and  the  thought  came  into 
my  head  that  it  might  be  my  mother — I  had  only  thought  of 
Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  until  then — I  drew  back  my  hand 
from  the  lock,  and  stopped  to  have  a  sob  before  I  went  in. 

At  first  I  saw  nobody  ;  but"  feeling  a  pressure  against  the 
door,  I  looked  round  it,  and  there,  to  my  amazement,  were 
Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham,  ducking  at  me  with  their  hats,  and 
squeezing  one  another  against  the  wall.  I  could  not  help 
laughing  ;  but  it  was  much  more  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them,  than  at  the  appearance  they  made.  We  shook  hands 
in  a  very  cordial  way  ;  and  I  laughed  and  laughed,  until  I 
pulled  out  my  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped  my  eyes. 

Mr.  Peggotty  (who  never  shut  his  mouth  once,  I  remem- 
ber, during  the  visit)  showed  great  concern  when  he  saw 
me  do  this,  and  nudged  Ham  to  say  something. 

"  Cheer  up,  Mas'r  Davy,  bo'  !  "  said  Ham,  in  his  simper- 
ing way.     "  Why,  how  you  have  growed  !  " 

"  Am  I  grown  ?  "  I  said,  drying  my  eyes.  I  was  not  cry- 
ing at  anything  particular  that  I  know  of  ;  but  somehow  it 
made  me  cry  to  see  old  friends. 

"  Growed,  Mas'r  Davy,  bo'  ?  Ain't  he  growed  ? "  said 
ilam. 


io6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

*  Ain't  he  growed  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

They  made  me  laugh  again  by  laughing  at  each  other,  and 
then  we  all  three  laughed  until  I  was  in  danger  of  crying 
again. 

*'  Do  you  know  how  mamma  is,  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  I  said. 
"  And  how  my  dear,  dear,  old  Peggotty  is  ?" 

"Oncommon,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  And  little  Em'ly,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  ?" 

"  On^common,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

There  was  a  silence.  Mr.  Peggotty,  to  relieve  it,  took 
two  prodigious  lobsters,  and  an  enormous  crab,  and  a  large 
canvas  bag  of  shrimps,  out  of  his  pockets,  and  piled  them 
up  in  Ham's  arms. 

*'  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  knowing  as  you  was 
partial  to  a  little  relish  with  your  wittles  when  you  was 
along  with  Us,  we  took  the  liberty.  The  old  Mawther  biled 
*em,  she  did.  Mrs.  Gummidge  biled  *em.  Yes,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty  slowly,  who  I  thought  appeared  to  stick  to  the 
sub'ect  on  account  of  having  no  other  subject  ready,  "  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  I  do  assure  you,  she  biled  'em." 

I  expressed  my  thanks;  and  Mr,  Peggotty,  after  looking 
at  Ham,  who  stood  smiling  sheepishly  over  the  shell-fish, 
without  making  any  attempt  to  help  him,  said: 

"  We  come,  you  see,  the  wind  and  tide  making  in  our 
favor,  in  one  of  our  Yarmouth  lugs  to  Gravesen'.  My  sister 
she  wrote  to  me  the  name  of  this  here  place,  and  wrote  to 
me  as  if  ever  I  chanced  to  com'e  to  Gravesen',  I  was  to  come 
over  and  enquire  for  Mas'r  Davy  and  give  her  dooty,  humbly 
wishing  him  well  and  reporting  of  the  fam'ly  as  they  was 
oncommon  to-be-sure.  Little  Em'ly,  you  see,  she'll  write  to 
my  sister  when  I  go  back,  as  I  see  you  and  as  you  was 
similarly  oncommon,  and  so  we  make  it  quite  a  merry- 
go-rounder." 

I- was  obliged  to  consider  a  little  before  I  understood  what 
Mr.  Peggotty  meant  by  this  figure,  expressive  of  a  complete 
circle  of  intelligence.  I  then  thanked  him  heartily;  and 
said,  with  a  consciousness  of  reddening,  that  I  supposed 
little  Em'ly  was  altered  too,  since  we  used  to  pick  up  shells 
and  pebbles  on  the  beach  ? 

"  She's" getting  to  be  a  woman,  that's  wot's  she's  getting 
to  be,"  said  Mr    Peggotty.     "  Ask  him." 

He  meant  Ham,  who  beamed  with  delight  and  assent  over 
the  bag  of  shrimps. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  107 

"  Her  pretty  face  !'*  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  his  own 
shining  like  a  light. 

"  Her  learning  !"  said  Ham. 

"  Her  writing  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  *'  Why,  it's  as  black 
as  jet!     And  so  large  it  is,  you  might  see  it  anywheres." 

It  was  perfectly  delightful  to  behold  with  what  enthusiasm 
Mr.  Peggotty  became  inspired  when  he  thought  of  his  little 
favorite.  He  stands  before  me  again,  his  bluff  hairy  face 
irradiating  with  a  joyful  love  and  pride,  for  which  I  can 
find  no  description.  His  honest  eyes  fire  up,  and  sparkle, 
as  if  their  depths  were  stirred  by  something  bright.  His 
broad  chest  heaves  with  pleasure.  His  strong  loose  hands 
clench  themselves,  in  his  earnestness;  and  he  emphasizes 
what  he  says  with  a  right  arm  that  shows,  in  my  pigmy  view, 
like  a  sledge  hammer. 

Ham  was  quite  as  earnest  as  he.  I  dare  say  they  would 
have  said  much  more  about  her,  if  they  had  not  been 
abashed  by  the  unexpected  coming  in  of  Steerforth,  who, 
seeing  me  in  a  corner  speaking  with  two  strangers,  stopped 
in  a  song  he  was  singing,  and  said:  "  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here,  young  Copperfield  !"  (for  it  was  not  the  usual 
visiting  room),  and  crossed  by  us  on  his  way  out. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  in  the  pride  of  having  such 
a  friend  as  Steerforth,  or  in  the  desire  to  explain  to  him  how 
1  came  to  have  such  a  friend  as  Mr.  Peggotty,  that  I  called 
to  him  as  he  was  going  away.  But  I  said,  modestly — Good 
Heaven,  how  it  all  comes  back  to  me  this  long  time  after- 
wards ! — 

"  Don't  go,  Steerforth,  if  you  please.  These  are  two 
Yarmouth  boatmen — very  kind,  good  people — who  are  re- 
lations of  my  nurse,  and  have  come  from  Gravesend  to  see 
me." 

"  Aye,  aye  ?"  said  Steerforth,  returning.  "  I  am  glad  to 
see  them.     How  are  ye  both  ?" 

There  was  an  ease  in  his  manner — a  gay  and  light  manner 
it  was,  but  not  swaggering — which  I  still  believe  to  have 
borne  a  kind  of  enchantment  with  it.  I  still  believe  him, 
in  virtue  of  this  carriage,  his  animal  spirits,  his  delightful 
voice,  his  handsome  face  and  figure,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
of  some  inborn  power  of  attraction  besides  (which  I  think  a 
few  people  possess),  to  have  carried  a  spell  with  him,  to 
which  it  was  a  natural  weakness  to  yield,  and  which  not 
many  persons  could  withstand.     I  could  not  but  see   how 


io8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

pleased  they  were  with  him,  and  how  they  seemed  to  open 
their  hearts  to  him  in  a  moment. 

"  You  must  let  them  know  at  home,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Peggotty,"  I  said,  "  when  that  letter  is  sent,  that  Mr.  Steer- 
forth  is  very  kind  to  me,  and  that  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  ever  do  here  without  him." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Steerforth,  laughing.  "  You  mustn't 
tell  them  any  thing  of  the  sort." 

"  And  if  Mr.  Steerforth  ever  comes  into  Norfolk  or  Suf- 
folk, Mr.  Peggotty,"  I  said,  "  while  I  am  there,  you  may  de- 
pend upon  it  I  shall  bring  him  to  Yarmouth,  if  he  will  let 
me,  to  see  your  house.  You  never  saw  such  a  good  house, 
Steerforth.     It's  made  out  of  a  boat." 

"  Made  out  of  a  boat,  is  it  !  "  said  Steerforth.  "  It's  the 
right  sort  of  house  for  such  a  thorough-built  boatman." 

"  So  'tis,  sir,  so  'tis,  sir,"  said  Ham,  grinning.  "  You're 
right,  young  gen'lm'n.  Mas'r  Davy  bo',  gen'lm'n's  right.  A 
thorough-built  boatman!  Hor,  hor  !   That's  what  he  is,  too!" 

Mr.  Peggotty  was  no  less  pleased  than  his  nephew,  though 
his  modesty  forbade  him  to  claim  a  personal  compliment  so 
vociferously. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  bowing  and  chuckling,  and  tucking 
in  the  ends  of  his  neckerchief  at  his  breast,  "  I  thankee,  sir, 
I  thankee  !     I  do  my  endeavors  in  my  line  of  life,  sir." 

"  The  best  of  men  can  do  no  more,  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said 
Steerforth.     He  had  got  his  name  already. 

"I'll  pound  it,  it's  wot  you  do  yourself,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  shaking  his  head,  "and  wot  you  do  well — right 
well !  I  thankee,  sir.  I'm  obleeged  to  you,  sir,  for  your 
welcoming  manner  of  me.  I'm  rough,  sir,  but  I'm  ready — 
least  ways,  I  hope,  I'm  ready,  you  understand.  My  house 
ain't  much  for  to  see,  sir,  but  it 's  hearty  at  your  service  if 
ever  you  should  come  along  with  Mas'r  Davy  to  see  it.  I'm 
a  reg'lar  Dodman,  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  ;  by  which  he 
meant  snail,  and  this  was  in  allusion  to  his  being  slow  to 
go,  for  he  had  attempted  to  go  after  every  sentence,  and  had 
somehow  or  other  come  back  again  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  both 
well,  and  I  wish  you  happy  !" 

Ham  echoed  this  sentiment,  and  we  parted  with  them  in 
the  heartiest  manner.  I  was  almost  tempted  that  evening 
to  tell  Steerforth  about  pretty  Em'ly,  but  I  was  too  timid  of 
mentioning  her  name,  and  too  much  afraid  of  his  laughing 
at  me.     I  remember  that  I  thought  a  good  deal^  and  in  an 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  109 

Uneasy  sort  of  way,  about  Mr.  Peggotty  having  said  that  she 
was  getting  on  to  be  a  woman  ;  but  I  decided  that  was  non- 
sense. 

We  transported  the  shell-fish,  or  the  **  relish  "  as  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty modestly  called  it,  up  into  our  room  unobserved,  and 
made  a  great  supper  that  evening.  But  Traddles  couldn't 
get  happily  out  of  it.  He  was  too  unfortunate  even  to 
come  through  a  supper  like  anybody  else.  He  was  taken 
ill  in  the  night — quite  prostrate  he  was — in  consequence  of 
crab;  and  after  being  drugged  with  black  draughts  and  blue 
pills,  to  an  extent  which  Demple  (whose  father  was  a  doc- 
tor) said  was  enough  to  undermine  a  horse's  constitution, 
received  a  caning  and  six  chapters  of  Greek  Testament  for 
refusing  to  confess. 

The  rest  of  the  half-year  is  a  jumble  in  my  recollection  of 
the  daily  strife  and  struggle  of  our  lives;  of  the  waning  sum- 
mer and  the  changing  season;  of  the  frosty  mornings  when 
we  were  rung  out  of  bed,  and  the  cold,  cold  smell  of  the  dark 
nights  when  we  were  rung  into  bed  again;  of  the  evening 
schoolroom  dimly  lighted  and  indifferently  warmed,  and  the 
morning  schoolroom  which  was  nothing  but  a  great  shiver- 
ing-machine;  of  the  alternation  of  boiled  beef  with  roast 
beef,  and  boiled  mutton  with  roast  mutton;  of  clods  of 
bread-and-butter,  dog's-eared  lesson-books,  cracked  slates, 
tear-blotted  copy-books,  canings,  rulerings,  hair-cuttings, 
rainy  Sundays,  suet  puddings,  and  a  dirty  atmosphere  of  ink 
surrounding  all. 

I  well  remember  though,  how  the  distant  idea  of  the  holi- 
days, after  seeming  for  an  immense  time  to  be  a  stationary 
speck,  began  to  come  towards  us,  and  to  grow  and  grow. 
How,  from  counting  months,  we  came  to  weeks,  and  then  to 
days;  and  how  I  then  began  to  be  afraid  that  1  should  not 
be  sent  for,  and,  when  I  learned  from  Steerforth  that  I  had 
been  sent  for  and  was  certainly  to  go  home,  had  dim  fore- 
bodings that  I  might  break  my  leg  first.  How  the  break- 
ing-up  day  changed  its  place  fast,  at  last,  from  the  week  af- 
ter next  to  next  week,  this  week,  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
to-morrow,  to-day,  to-night — when  I  was  inside  the  Yar- 
mouth mail,  and  going  home. 

I  had  many  a  broken  sleep  inside  the  Yarmouth  mail,  and 
many  an  incoherent  dream  of  all  these  things.  But  when  I 
awoke  at  intervals,  the  ground  outside  the  window  was  not 
the  playground  of  Salem  House,  and  the  sound  in  my  ears 
was  not  the  sound  of  Mr.  Creakle  giving  it  to  Traddles,  but 
the  sound  of  the  coachman  touching  up  the  horse§. 


no  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

MY  HOLIDAYS,       ESPECIALLY    ONE  HAPPY  AFTERNOON. 

When  we  arrived  before  day  at  the  inn  where  the  mail 
stopped  which  was  not  the  inn  where  my  friend  the  waiter 
Hved,  I  was  shown  up  to  a  nice  little  bedroom,  with  Dolphin 
painted  on  the  door.  Very  cold  I  was  I  know,  notwith- 
standing the  hot  tea  they  had  given  me  before  a  large  fire 
down-stairs;  and  very  glad  I  was  to  turn  into  the  Dolphin's 
bed,  pull  the  Dolphin's  blankets  round  my  head,  and  go  to 
sleep. 

Mr.  Barkis  the  carrier  was  to  call  for  me  in  the  morning 
at  nine  o'clock.  I  got  up  at  eight,  a  little  giddy  from  the 
shortness  of  my  night's  rest,  and  was  ready  for  him  before 
the  appointed  time.  He  received  me  exactly  as  if  not  five 
minutes  had  elapsed  since  we  were  last  together,  and  I  had 
only  been  into  the  hotel  to  get  change  for  sixpence,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort. 

As  soon  as  I  and  my  box  were  in  the  cart,  and  the  carrier 
seated,  the  lazy  horse  walked  away  with  us  all  at  his  accus- 
tomed pace. 

"  You  look  very  well,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  said,  thinking  he 
would  like  to  know  it. 

Mr.  Barkis  rubbed  his  cheek  with  his  cuff,  and  then  looked 
at  his  cuff  as  if  he  expected  to  find  some  of  the  bloom  up- 
on it;  but  made  no  other  acknowledgment  of  the  compli- 
ment. 

"  1  gave  your  message,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  said;  "  I  wrote  to 
Peggotty." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Mr.  Barkis  seemed  gruff,  and  answered  drily. 

"  Wasn't  it  right,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  I  asked,  after  a  little  hesi- 
tation. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Barkis 

"  Not  the  message  ?" 

"  The  message  was  right  enough,  perhaps,"  said  Mr. 
Barkis;  "  but  it  come  to  an  end  there." 

Not  understanding  what  he  meant,  I  repeated  inquisitively: 
"  Came  to  an  end,  Mr.  Barkis  ?" 

"  Nothing  come  of  it,"  he  explained,  looking  at  mc  side- 
ways.    "No  answer." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  iii 

"  There  was  an  answer  expected,  was  there,  Mr.  Barkis  ?" 
said  I,  opening  my  eyes.     For  this  was  a  new  light  to  me. 

"When  a  man  says  he's  willin',''  said  Mr.  Barkis,  turning 
his  glance  slowly  on  me  again,  *'  it's  as  much  as  to  say,  that 
man's  a  waitin'  for  a  answer." 

"Well,  Mr.  Barkis  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  carrying  his  eyes  back  to  his 
horse's  ears;  "  that  man's  been  a  waitin'  for  a  answer  ever 
since." 

"  Have  you  told  her  so,  Mr.  Barkis  ?" 

"  N — no,"  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  reflecting  about  it.  "  I 
ain't  got  no  call  to  go  and  tell  her  so.  I  never  said  six 
words  to  her  myself,     /ain't  a  goin'  to  tell  her  so." 

**  Would  you  like  me  to  do  it,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  said  I,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  You  might  tell  her  if  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with 
another  slow  look  at  me,  "  that  Barkis  was  a  waitin'  for  a 
answer.     Says  you — what  name  is  it  ?" 

"  Her  name  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

*  Peggotty." 

"  Chrisen  name  ?     Or  nat'ral  name  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"  Oh,  it's  not  her  Christian  name.  Her  Christian  name  is 
Clara." 

"  Is  it  though  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  seemed  to  find  an  immense  fund  of  reflection  in  this 
circumstance,  and  sat  pondering  and  inwardly  whistling  for 
some  time. 

"  Well !"  he  resumed  at  length.  "  Says  you,  *  Peggotty  ! 
Barkis  is  a  waitin'  for  a  answer.'  Says  she,  perhaps,  'An- 
swer to  what  ?'  Says  you,  '  To  what  I  told  you.*  *  What 
is  that  ?'  says  she.     '  Barkis  is  willin','  says  you." 

This  extremely  artful  suggestion,  Mr.  Barkis  accompanied 
with  a  nudge  of  his  elbow  that  gave  me  quite  a  stitch  in  my 
side.  After  that,  he  slouched  over  his  horse  in  his  usual 
manner;  and  made  no  other  reference  to  the  subject  ex- 
cept, half  an  hour  afterwards,  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from 
his  pocket,  and  writing  up,  inside  the  tilt  of  the  cart,  "  Clara 
Peggotty  " — apparently  as  a  private  memorandum. 

Ah,  what  a  strange  feeling  it  was  to  be  going  home  when 
it  was  not  home,  and  to  find  that  every  object  I  looked  at, 
reminded  me  of  the  happy  old  home,  which  was  like  a  dream 
I  could  never  dream  again !    The  days  when  my  mother 


112  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  I  and  Peggotty  were  all  in  all  to  one  another,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  come  between  us,  rose  up  before  me  so  sor- 
rowfully on  the  road,  that  I  am  not  sure  I  was  glad  to  be 
there — not  sure  but  that  I  would  rather  have  remained  away, 
and  forgotten  it  in  Steerforth's  company.  But  there  I  was; 
and  soon  I  was  at  our  house,  where  the  bare  old  elm  trees 
wrung  their  many  hands  in  the  bleak  wintry  air,  and  shreds 
of  the  old  rooks'  nests  drifted  away  upon  the  wind. 

The  carrier  put  my  box  down  at  the  garden  gate,  and  left 
me.  I  walked  along  the  path  towards  the  house,  glancing 
at  the  windows,  and  fearing  at  every  step  to  see  Mr.  Murd- 
stone  or  Miss  Murdstone  lowering  out  of  one  of  them.  No 
face  appeared,  however;  and  being  come  to  the  house,  and 
knowing  how  to  open  the  door,  before  dark,  without  knock- 
ing, I  went  in  with  a  quiet,  timid  step. 

God  knows  how  infantine  the  memory  may  have  been, 
that  was  awakened  within  me  by  the  sound  of  my  mother's 
voice  in  the  old  parlor,  when  I  set  foot  in  the  hall.  She 
was  singing  in  a  low  tone.  I  think  I  must  have  lain  in  her 
arms,  and  heard  her  singing  so  to  me  when  I  was  but  a  baby. 
The  strain  was  new  to  me,  and  yet  it  was  so  old  that  it  filled 
my  heart  brim-full;  like  a  friend  come  back  from  a  long  ab- 
sence. 

I  believed,  from  the  solitary  and  thoughtful  way  in  which 
my  mother  murmured  her  song,  that  she  was  alone.  And  I 
went  softly  into  the  room.  She  was  sitting  by  the  fire, 
suckling  an  infant,  whose  tiny  hand  she  held  against  her 
neck.  Her  eyes  were  looking  down  upon  its  face,  and  she 
sat  singing  to  it.  I  was  so  far  right,  that  she  had  no  other 
companion. 

I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  started,  and  cried  out.  But  see- 
ing me,  she  called  me  her  dear  Davy,  her  own  boy !  and 
coming  half  across  the  room  to  meet  me,  kneeled  down  up- 
on the  ground  and  kissed  me,  and  laid  my  head  down  on  her 
bosom  near  the  little  creature  that  was  nestling  there,  and 
put  its  hand  up  to  my  lips. 

I  wish  I  had  died.  I  wish  I  had  died  then,  with  that  feel- 
ing in  my  heart !  I  should  have  been  more  fit  for  Heaven 
than  I  ever  have  been  since. 

"  He  is  your  brother,"  said  my  mother,  fondling  me. 
"  Davy,  my  pretty  boy  !  My  poor  child."  Then  she  kissed 
me  more  and  more,  and  clasped  me  round  the  neck.  This 
she  was  doing  when  Peggotty  came  running  in,  and  bounced 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  113 

down  on  the  ground  beside  us,  and  went  mad  about  us  both 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

It  seemed  that  I  had  not  been  expected  so  soon,  the  car- 
rier being  much  before  his  usual  time.  It  seemed,  too,  that 
Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  had  gone  out  upon  a  visit  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  would  not  return  before  night.  I  had 
never  hoped  for  this.  I  had  never  thought  it  possible  that 
we  three  could  be  together  undisturbed,  once  more  ;  and  I 
felt,  for  the  time,  as  if  the  old  days  were  come  back. 

We  dined  together  by  the  fireside.  Peggotty  was  in  at- 
tendance to  wait  upon  us,  but  my  mother  wouldn't  let  her 
do  it,  and  made  her  dine  with  us.  I  had  my  own  old 
plate,  with  a  brown  view  of  a  man-of-war  in  full  sail  upon 
it,  which  Peggotty  had  hoarded  somewhere  all  the  time  I 
had  been  away,  and  would  not  have  had  broken,  she  said, 
for  a  hundred  pounds.  I  had  my  own  old  mug  with  David 
on  it,  and  my  own  old  little  knife  and  fork  that  wouldn't  cut. 

While  we  were  at  table,  I  thought  it  a  favorable  occasion 
to  tell  Peggotty  about  Mr.  Barkis,  who,  before  I  had  finished 
what  I  had  to  tell  her,  began  to  laugh,  and  threw  her  apron 
over  her  face. 

"  Peggotty  !"  said  my  mother.     "  What's  the  matter  ?" 

Peggotty  only  laughed  the  more,  and  held  her  apron  tight 
over  her  face  when  my  mother  tried  to  pull  it  away,  and  sat 
as  if  her  head  were  in  a  bag. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  you  stupid  creature  ?"  said  my 
mother,  laughing. 

"  O,  drat  the  man  !"  cried  Peggotty.  "  He  wants  to 
marry  me." 

"  It  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  you  ;  wouldn't  it  ?" 
said  my  mother. 

*'  Oh  1  I  don't  know,"  said  Peggotty.  **  Don't  ask  me. 
I  wouldn't  have  him  if  he  was  made  of  gold.  Nor  I  wouldn't 
have  anybody." 

**  Then,  why  don't  you  tell  him  so,  you  ridiculous  thing  ?'* 
said  my  mother. 

"  Tell  him  so,"  retorted  Peggotty,  looking  out  of  her 
apron.  "  He  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it.  He 
knows  better.  If  he  was  to  make  so  bold  as  say  a  word  to 
me,  I  should  slap  his  face." 

Her  own  was  as  red  as  ever  I  saw  it,  or  any  other  face,  I 
think  :  but  she  only  covered  it  again,  for  a  few  moments  at 
a  time,  when  she  was  taken  with  a  violent  fit  of  laughter ; 


114  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  after  two  or  three  of  those  attacks,  went  on  with  her 
dinner, 

I  remarked  that  my  mother,  though  she  smiled  when  Peg- 
gotty  looked  at  her,  became  more  serious  and  thoughtful.  I 
had  seen  at  first  that  she  was  changed.  Her  face  was  very 
pretty  still,  but  it  looked  careworn,  and  too  delicate  ;  and  her 
hand  was  so  thin  and  white  that  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  al- 
most transparent.  But  the  change  to  which  I  now  refer 
was  superadded  to  this  :  it  was  in  her  manner,  which  became 
anxious  and  fluttered.  At  last  she  said,  putting  out  her 
hand,  and  laying  it  affectionately  on  the  hand  of  her  old 
servant : 

"  Peggotty,  dear,  you  are  not  going  to  be  married  ?" 

"  Me,  ma'am  ?"  returned  Peggotty,  staring.  "  Lord  bless 
you,  no  !" 

"  Not  just  yet  ?"  said  my  mother,  tenderly. 

"  Never  !"  cried  Peggotty. 

My  mother  took  her  hand,  and  said: 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Peggotty.  Stay  with  me.  It  will  not 
be  for  long,  perhaps.     What  should  I  ever  do  without  you!" 

"-Me  leave  you,  my  precious  !"  cried  Peggotty.  "  Not  for 
all  the  world  and  his  wife.  Why,  what's  put  that  in  your 
silly  little  head.''" — For  Peggotty  had  been  used  of  old  to 
talk  to  my  mother  sometimes  like  a  child. 

But  my  mother  made  no  answer,  except  to  thank  her,  and 
Peggotty  went  running  on  in  her  own  fashion. 

"  Me  leave  you  ?  I  think  I  see  myself.  Peggotty  go  away 
from  you  ?  I  should  like  to  catch  her  at  it  !  No,  no,  no," 
said  Peggotty,  shaking  her  head,  and  folding  her  arms  : 
"not  she,  my  dear.  It  isn't  that  there  ain't  some  cats  that 
would  be  well  enough  pleased  if  she  did,  but  they  shan't  be 
pleased.  They  shall  be  aggravated.  I'll  stay  with  you  till 
I  am  a  cross  cranky  old  woman.  And  when  I'm  too  deaf, 
and  too  lame,  and  too  blind,  and  too  mumbly  for  want  of 
teeth,  to  be  of  any  use  at  all,  even  to  be  found  fault  with, 
then  I  shall  go  to  my  Davy,  and  ask  him  to  take  me  in." 

"  And  Peggotty,"  says  I,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  and 
I'll  make  you  as  welcome  as  a  queen." 

"  Bless  your  dear  heart  !"  cried  Peggotty.  "  I  know  you 
will  !"  And  she  kissed  me  beforehand,  in  grateful  acknow- 
ledgment of  my  hospitality.  After  that,  she  covered  her 
head  up  with  her  apron  again,  and  had  another  laugh  about 
^x..  P^-rXis.    ^fter  |;J>,g.t>  she  took  the  baby  out  of  its  little 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  115 

cradle,  and  nursed  it.  After  that,  she  cleared  the  dinner- 
table;  after  that,  she  came  in  with  another  cap  on,  and  her 
work-box,  and  the  yard  measure,  and  the  bit  of  wax  candle, 
all  just  the  same  as  ever. 

We  sat  round  the  fire,  and  talked  delightfully.  I  told 
them  what  a  hard  master  Mr.  Creakle  was,  and  they  pitied 
me  very  much.  I  told  them  what  a  fine  fellow  Steerforth 
was,  and  what  a  patron  of  mine,  and  Peggotty  said  she 
would  walk  a  score  of  miles  to  see  him.  I  took  the  little 
baby  in  my  arms  when  it  was  awake,  and  nursed  it  lovingly. 
When  it  was  asleep  again,  I  crept  close  to  my  mother's  side 
according  to  my  old  custom,  broken  now  a  long  time,  and 
sat  with  my  arms  embracing  her  waist,  and  my  little  red 
cheek  on  her  shoulder,  and  once  more  felt  her  beautiful 
hair  drooping  over  me — like  an  angel's  wing  as  I  used  to 
think,  I  recollect — and  was  very  happy  indeed. 

While  I  sat  thus,  looking  at  the  fire,  and  seeing  pictures 
in  the  red-hot  coals,  I  almost  believed  that  I  had  never  been 
away;  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  such  pictures, 
and  would  vanish  when  the  fire  got  low,  and  that  there  was 
nothing  real  in  all  that  I  remembered,  save  my  mother, 
Peggotty,  and  I. 

Peggotty  darned  away  at  a  stocking  as  long  as  she  could 
see,  and  then  sat  with  it  drawn  on  her  left  hand  like  a 
glove,  and  her  needle  in  her  right,  ready  to  take  another 
stitch  whenever  there  was  a  blaze.  I  cannot  conceive  whose 
stockings  they  can  have  been  that  Peggotty  was  always 
darning,  or  where  such  an  unfailing  supply  of  stockings  in 
want  of  darning  can  have  come  from.  From  my  earliest 
infancy  she  seems  to  have  been  always  employed  in  that 
class  of  needlework,  and  never  by  any  chance  in  any  other. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Peggotty,  who  was  sometimes  seized 
with  a  fit  of  wondering  on  some  most  unexpected,  topic, 
*'  what's  become  of  Davy's  great-aunt?  " 

"  Lor,  Peggotty  !"  observed  my  mother,  rousing  herself 
from  a  reverie,  "  what  nonsense  you  talk  !" 

**  Well,  but  I  really  do  wonder,  ma'am,"  said  Peggotty. 

"What  can  have  put  such  a  person  in  your  head  !"  in- 
quired my  mother.  "  Is  there  nobody  else  in  the  world  to 
come  there  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Peggotty,  "unless  it's  on 
account  of  being  stupid,  but  my  head  never  can  pick  and 
choose  its  people.     They  come  and  they  go,  and  they  don't 


Ii6  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

come  and  they  don't  go,  just  as  they  like.     I  wonder  what's 
become  of  her  ?" 

"  How  absurd  you  are,  Peggotty,"  returned  my  mother. 
"  One  would  suppose  you  wanted  a  second  visit  from  her." 

"Lord  forbid  !"  cried  Peggotty. 

"  Well  then,  don't  talk  about  such  uncomfortable  things, 
there's  a  good  soul,"  said  my  mother.  "  Miss  Betsey  is  shut 
up  in  her  cottage  by  the  sea,  no  doubt,  and  will  remain 
there.  At  all  events,  she  is  not  likely  ever  to  trouble  us 
again." 

"  No  !"  mused  Peggotty.  "  No,  that  ain't  likely  at  all.— 
I  wonder,  if  she  was  to  die,  whether  she'd  leave  Davy  any- 
thing ?" 

"Good  gracious  me,  Peggotty,"  returned  my  mother, 
"  what  a  nonsensical  woman  you  are!  when  you  know  that 
she  took  offense  at  the  poor  dear  boy's  ever  being  born  at 
all  !" 

"  I  suppose  she  wouldn't  be  inclined  to  forgive  him  now," 
hinted  Peggotty. 

"  Why  should  she  be  inclined  to  forgive  him  now  ?"  said 
my  mother,  rather  sharply. 

"  Now  that  he's  got  a  brother,  I  mean,"  said  Peggotty. 

My  mother  immediately  began  to  cry,  and  wondered  how 
Peggotty  dared  to  say  such  a  thing. 

"  As  if  this  poor  little  innocent  in  its  cradle  had  ever  done 
any  harm  to  you  or  anybody  else,  you  jealous  thing  !"  said 
she.  "  You  had  much  better  go  and  marry  Mr.  Barkis,  the 
carrier.     Why  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  should  make  Miss  Murdstone  happy,  if  I  was  to,"  said 
Peggotty. 

"  What  a  bad  disposition  you  have,  Peggotty !"  returned 
my  mother.  "  You  are  as  jealous  of  Miss  Murdstone  as  it 
is  possible  for  a  ridiculous  creature  to  be.  You  want  to 
keep  the  keys  yourself,  and  give  out  all  the  things,  I  suppose? 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  did.  When  you  know  that 
she  only  does  it  out  of  kindness  and  the  best  intentions  ! 
You  know  she  does,  Peggotty — you  know  it  well." 

Peggotty  muttered  something  to  the  effect  of  ^'  Bother  the 
best  intentions  !"  and  something  else  to  the  effect  that  there 
was  a  little  too  much  of  the  best  intentions  going  on. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  you  cross  thing,"  said  my 
mother.  "  I  understand  you,  Peggotty,  perfectly.  You 
know  I  do,  and  I  wonder  you  don't  color  up  like  fire.     But 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  117 

one  point  at  a  time.  Miss  Murdstone  is  the  point  now,  Peg- 
gotty,  and  you  shan't  escape  from  it.  Haven't  you  heard 
her  say,  over  and  over  again,  that  she  thinks  I  am  too  thought- 
less and  too — a — a — " 

"  Pretty,"  suggested  Peggotty. 

"  Well,"  returned  my  mother,  half  laughing,  "  and  if  she 
is  so  silly  as  to  say  so,  can  I  be  blamed  for  it  ?" 

"  No  one  says  you  can,"  said  Peggotty. 

"No,  I  should  hope  not,  indeed!"  returned  my  mother. 
"  Haven't  you  heard  her  say,  over  and  over  again,  that  on 
this  account  she  wishes  to  spare  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
which  she  thinks  I  am  not  suited  for,  and  which  I  really 
don't  know  myself  that  1  am  suited  for,  and  isn't  she  up 
early  and  late,  and  going  to  and  fro  continually — and  doesn't 
she  do  all  sorts  of  things,  and  grope  into  all  sorts  of  places, 
coal-holes  and  pantries  and  I  don't  know  where,  that  can't 
be  very  agreeable — and  do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  there 
is  not  a  sort  of  devotion  in  that  .^" 

"  I  don't  insinuate  at  all,"  said  Peggotty. 

"  You  do,  Peggotty,"  returned  my  mother.  "  You  never 
do  anything  else,  except  your  work.  You  are  always  insin- 
uating. You  revel  in  it.  And  when  you  talk  of  Mr.  Murd- 
stone's  good  intentions — " 

"  I  never  talked  of  'em,"  said  Peggotty. 

"  No,  Peggotty,"  returned  my  mother,  "  but  you  insinu- 
ated. That's  what  I  told  you  just  now.  _  That's  the  worst 
of  you.  You  will  insinuate.  I  said,  at  the  moment,  that  I 
understood  you,  and  you  see  I  did.  When  you  talk  of  Mr. 
Murdstone's  good  intentions,  and  pretend  to  slight  them 
(for  I  don't  believe  you  really  do,  in  your  heart,  Peggotty), 
you  must  be  as  well  convinced  as  I  am  how  good  they  are, 
and  how  they  actuate  him  in  everything.  If  he  seems  to 
have  been  at  all  stern  with  a  certain  person,  Peggotty — you 
understand,  and  so  I  am  sure  does  Davy,  that  I  am  not  al- 
luding to  anybody  present — it  is  solely  because  he  is  satis- 
fied that  it  is  for  a  certain  person's  benefit.  He  naturally 
loves  a  certain  person,  on  my  account;  and  acts  solely  for  a 
certain  person's  good.  He  is  better  able  to  judge  of  it  than 
I  am;  for  I  very  well  know  that  I  am  a  weak,  light,  girlish 
creature,  and  that  he  is  a  firm,  grave,  serious  man.  And  he 
takes,"  said  my  mother,  with  the  tears  which  were  engen- 
dered in  her  affectionate  nature,  stealing  down  her  face,  '*  he 
takes  great  pains  with  me;  and  I  ought  to  "be  very  thankful 


ii8  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

to  him,  and  very  submissive  to  him  even  in  my  thoughts;  and 
when  I  am  not,  Peggotty,  I  worry  and  condemn  myself,  and 
feel  doubtful  of  my  own  heart,  and  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Peggotty  sat  with  her  chin  on  the  foot  of  the  stocking, 
looking  silently  at  the  fire. 

"  There,  Peggotty,"  said  my  mother,  changing  her  tone, 
"  don't  let  us  fall  out  with  one  another,  for  I  couldn't  bear 
it.  You  are  my  true  friend,  I  know,  if  I  have  any  in  the 
world.  When  I  call  you  a  ridiculous  creature,  or  a  vexatious 
thing,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  Peggotty,  I  only  mean  that 
you  are  my  true  friend,  and  always  have  been,  ever  since  the 
night  when  Mr.  Copperfield  first  brought  me  home  here,  and 
you  came  out  to  the  gate  to  meet  me." 

Peggotty  was  not  slow  to  respond,  and  ratified  the  treaty 
of  friendship  by  giving  me  one  of  her  best  hugs.  I  think  I 
had  some  glimpses  ot  the  real  character  of  this  conversation 
at  the  time;  but  I  am  sure,  now,  that  the  good  creature  or- 
iginated it,  and  took  her  part  in  it,  merely  that  my  mother 
might  comfort  herself  with  the  little  contradictory  summary 
in  which  she  had  indulged.  The  design  was  efficacious; 
for  I  remember  that  my  mother  seemed  more  at  ease  during 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  that  Peggotty  observed  her  less. 

When  we  had  had  our  tea,  and  the  ashes  were  thrown  up, 
and  the  candles  snuffed,  I  read  Peggotty  a  chapter  out  of 
the  Crocodile  Book,  in  remembrance  of  old  times — she  took 
it  out  of  her  pocket:  I  don't  know  whether  she  had  kept  it 
there  ever  since — and  then  we  talked  about  Salem  House, 
which  brought  me  round  again  to  Steerforth,  who  was  my 
great  subject.  We  were  very  happy;  and  that  evening,  as 
the  last  of  its  race,  and  destined  evermore  to  close  that 
volume  of  my  life,  will  never  pass  out  of  my  memory. 

It  was  almost  ten  o'clock  before  we  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels.  We  all  got  up  then  ;  and  my  mother  said  hurriedly 
that,  as  it  was  so  late,  and  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  ap- 
proved of  early  hours  for  young  people,  perhaps  I  had  bet- 
ter go  to  bed.  I  kissed  her,  and  went  up  stairs  with  my 
candle  directly,  before  they  came  in.  It  appeared  to  my 
childish  fancy,  as  I  ascended  to  the  bedroom  where  I  had 
been  imprisoned,  that  they  brought  a  cold  blast  of  air  into 
the  house  which  blew  away  the  old  familiar  feeling  like  a 
feather. 

I  felt  uncomfortable  about  going  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  as  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  Mr.  Murdstone  since 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  119 

\  fle  day  when  I  committed  my  memorable  offense.  However, 
as  it  must  be  done,  I  went  down,  after  two  or  three  false 
starts  half-way,  and  as  many  runs  back  on  tip  toe  to  my 
own  room,  and  presented  myself  in  the  parlor. 

He  was  standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back  to  it,  while 
Miss  Murdstone  made  the  tea.  He  looked  at  me  steadily  as 
I  entered,  but  made  no  sign  of  recognition  whatever. 

I  went  up  to  him,  after  a  moment  of  confusion,  and  said: 
*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  am  very  sorry  for  what  I  did, 
and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

'*  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  sorry,  David,"  he  replied. 

The  hand  he  gave  me  was  the  hand  I  had  bitten.  I 
could  not  restrain  my  eye  from  resting  for  an  instant  on  a 
red  spot  upon  it,  but  it  was  not  so  red  as  I  turned,  when  I 
met  that  sinister  expression  in  his  face. 

"How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  I  said  to  Miss  Murdstone. 

"  Ah,  dear  me  !"  sighed  Miss  Murdstone,  giving  me  the 
tea-caddy  scoop  instead  of  her  fingers.  "  How  long  are  the 
holidays  ?" 

"A  month,  ma'am." 

"  Counting  from  when  ?" 

"  From  to-day,  ma'am." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Miss  Murdstone.  ''Then  here's  one  day  off." 

She  kept  a  calendar  of  the  holidays  in  this  way,  and  every 
morning  checked  a  day  off  in  exactly  the  same  manner.  She 
did  it  gloomily  until  she  came  to  ten,  but  when  she  got  into 
two  figures  she  became  more  hopeful,  and,  as  the  time  ad- 
vanced, even  jocular. 

It  was  on  this  very  first  day  that  I  had  the  misfortune 
to  throw  her,  though  she  was  not  subject  to  such  weak- 
nesses in  general,  into  a  state  of  violent  consternation.  I 
came  into  the  room  where  she  and  my  mother  were  sitting; 
and  the  baby  (who  was  only  a  few  weeks  old)  being  on  my 
mother's  lap,  I  took  it  very  carefully  in  my  arms.  Suddenly 
Miss  Murdstone  gave  such  a  scream  that  I  all  but  dropped  it. 

"  My  dear  Jane!  "  cried  my  mother. 

"  Good  heavens,  Clara,  do  you  see  ?"  exclaimed  Miss 
Murdstone. 

"  See  what,  my  dear  Jane  ?"  said  my  mother  ;  "  where  ?" 

"He's  got  it  !"  cried  Miss  Murdstone.  "The  boy  has 
got  the  baby  !" 

She  was  limp  with  horror  ;  but  stiffened  herself  to  make 
a  dart  at  me,  and  take  it  out  of  my  srms.     Then  she  turned 


120  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

faint  ;  and  was  so  very  ill,  that  they  were  obliged  to  give 
her  cherry-brandy.  I  was  solemnly  interdicted  by  her,  on 
her  recovery,  from  touching  my  brother  any  more  on  any 
pretence  whatever  ;  and  my  poor  mother,  who,  I  could  see, 
wished  otherwise,  meekly  confirmed  the  interdict,  by  saying: 
'*  No  doubt  you  are  right,  my  dear  Jane." 

On  another  occasion,  when  we  three  were  together,  this 
same  dear  baby — it  was  truly  dear  to  me,  for  our  mother's 
sake — was  the  innocent  occasion  of  Miss  Murdstone's  going 
into  a  passion.  My  mother,  who  had  been  looking  at  its 
eyes  as  it  lay  upon  her  lap,  said: 

"  Davy  !  come  here  !"  and  looked  at  mine. 

I  saw  Miss  Murdstone  lay  her  beads  down. 

"  I  declare,"  said  my  mother,  gently,  "  they  are  exactly 
alike.  I  suppose  they  are  mine.  I  think  they  are  the  color 
of  mine.     But  they  are  wonderfully  alike." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Clara?  "  said  Miss  Murd- 
stone. 

*'  My  dear  Jane,"  faltered  my  mother,  a  little  abashed  by 
the  harsh  tone  of  this  inquiry,  "  I  find  that  the  baby's  eyes 
and  Davy's  are  exactly  alike." 

"  Clara  ?"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  rising  angrily,  "  you  are 
a  positive  fool  sometimes." 

"  My  dear  Jane,"  remonstrated  my  mother. 

"  A  positive  fool,"  said  Miss  Murdstone.  "  Who  else  could 
compare  my  brother's  baby  with  your  boy  ?  They  are  not 
at  all  alike.  They  are  exactly  unlike.  They  are  utterly 
dissimilar  in  all  respects.  I  hope  they  will  ever  remain  so. 
I  will  not  sit  here  and  hear  such  comparisons  made."  With 
that  she  stalked  out,  and  made  the  door  bang  after  her. 

In  short,  I  was  not  a  favorite  with  Miss  Murdstone.  In 
short,  I  was  not  a  favorite  there  with  anybody,  not  'even 
with  myself:  for  those  who  did  like  me  could  not  show  it, 
and  those  who  did  not,  showed  it  so  plainly  that.  I  had  a 
sensitive  consciousness  of  always  appearing  constrained, 
boorish,  and  dull. 

I  felt  that  I  made  them  as  uncomfortable  as  they  made 
me.  If  I  came  into  the  room  where  they  were,  and  they 
were  talking  together  and  my  mother  seemed  cheerful,  an 
anxious  cloud  would  steal  over  her  face  from  the  moment 
of  my  entrance.  If  Mr.  Murdstone  were  in  his  best 
humor,  I  checked  him  If  Miss  Murdstone  were  in  her 
worst,  I  intensified  it.     I  had  perception  enough   to  know 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  121 

that  my  mother  was  the  victim  always;  that  she  was  afraid 
to  speak  to  me  or  to  be  kind  to  me,  lest  she  should  give 
them  some  offense  by  her  manner  of  doing  so,  and  receive 
a  lecture  afterwards;  that  she  was  not  only  ceaselessly 
afraid  of  her  own  offending,  but  of  my  offending,  and 
uneasily  watched  their  looks  if  I  only  moved.  Therefore 
1  resolved  to  keep  myself  as  much  out  of  their  way  as  I 
could;  and  many  a  wintry  hour  did  I  hear  the  church-clock 
strike,  when  I  was  sitting  in  my  cheerless  bedroom,  wrapped 
in  my  little  great-coat,  poring  over  a  book. 

In  the  evening,  sometimes,  I  went  and  sat  with  Peggotty 
in  the  kitchen.  There  I  was  comfortable,  and  not  afraid  of 
being  myself.  But  neither  of  these  resources  was  approved 
of  in  the  parlor.  The  tormenting  humor  which  was  domi- 
nant there  stopped  them  both.  I  was  still  held  to  be  neces- 
sary to  my  poor  mother's  training,  and,  as  one  of  her  trials, 
could  not  be  suffered  to  absent  myself. 

"  David,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  one  day  after  dinner  when 
I  was  going  to  leave  the  room  as  usual;  "I  am  sorry  to 
observe  that  you  are  of  a  sullen  disposition." 

*'  As  sulky  as  a  bear  !"  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

I  stood  still,  and  hung  my  head. 

"  Now,  David,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  *'  a  sullen  obdurate 
disposition  is,  of  all  tempers,  the  worst." 

"  And  the  boy's  is,  of  all  such  dispositions  that  ever  I  have 
seen,"  remarked  his  sister,  "  the  most  confirmed  and  stub- 
born.    I  think,  my  dear  Clara,  even  you  must  observe  it  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Jane,"  said  my  mother, 
"  but  are  you  quite  sure — I  am  certain  you'll  excuse  me,  my 
dear  Jane — that  you  understand  Davy  ?" 

"  I  should  be  somewhat  ashamed  of  myself,  Clara," 
returned  Miss  Murdstone,  "  if  I  could  not  understand  the 
boy,  or  any  boy.  I  don't  profess  to  be  profound;  but  I  do 
lay  claim  to  common  sense." 

**  No  doubt,  my  dear  Jane,"  returned  my.  mother,  "  your 
understanding  is  very  vigorous — " 

"  O  dear,  no  !  Pray  don't  say  that,  Clara,"  interposed 
Miss  Murdstone,  angrily. 

"But  I  am  sure  it  is,"  resumed  my  mother;  "and  every- 
body knows  it  is.  I  profit  so  much  by  it  myself,  in  many 
ways — at  least  I  ought  to — that  no  one  can  be  more  con- 
vinced of  it  than  myself;  and  therefore  I  speak  with  great 
V' diffidence,  my  dear  Jane,  I  assure  you." 


122  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Well  say  I  don't  understand  the  boy,  Clara,"  returned 
Miss  Murdstone,  arranging  the  little  fetters  on  her  wrists. 
"  We'll  agree,  if  you  please,  that  I  don't  understand  him  at 
all.  He  is  much  too  deep  for  me.  But  perhaps  my  brother's 
penetration  may  enable  him  to  have  some  insight  into  his 
character.  And  I  believe  my  brother  was  speaking  on  the 
subject  when  we — not  very  decently — interrupted  him." 

''I  think,  Clara,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  a  low,  grave 
voice,  "  that  there  may  be  better  and  more  dispassionate 
judges  of  such  a  question  than  you." 

"Edward,"  replied  my  mother,  timidly,  "you  area  far 
better  judge  of  all  questions  than  I  pretend  to  be.  Both 
you  and  Jane  are.     I  only  said — " 

"You  only  said  something  weak  and  inconsiderate,"  he 
replied.  "  Try  not  to  do  it  again,  my  dear  Clara,  and  keep 
a  watch  upon  yourself." 

My  mother's  lips  moved  as  if  she  answered,  "  yes,  my 
dear  Edward,"  but  she  said  nothing  aloud. 

"  I  was  sorry,  David,  I  remarked,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone, 
turning  his  head  and  his  eyes  stiffly  towards  me,  "  to  ob- 
serve that  you  are  of  a  sullen  disposition.  This  is  not  a 
character  that  I  can  suffer  to  develop  itself  beneath  my  eyes 
without  an  effort  at  improvement.  You  must  endeavor, 
sir,  to  change  it.     We  must  endeavor  to  change  it  for  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  I  faltered.  "  I  have  never 
meant  to  be  sullen  since  I  came  back." 

"  Don't  take  refuge  in  a  lie,  sir  !"  he  returned  so  fiercely, 
that  I  saw  my  mother  involuntarily  put  out  her  trembling 
hand  as  if  to  interpose  between  us.  "  You  have  withdrawn 
yourself  in  your  sullenness  to  your  own  room.  You  have 
kept  your  own  room  when  you  ought  to  have  been  here. 
You  know  now,  once  for  all,  that  I  require  you  to  be  here, 
and  not  there.  Further,  that  I  require  you  to  bring  obedi- 
ence here.     You  know  me,  David.     I  will  have  it  done." 

Miss  Murdstone  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 

"  I  will  have  a  respectful,  prompt,  and  ready  bearing  to- 
wards myself,"  he  continued,  "  and  towards  Jane  Murd- 
stone, and  towards  your  mother.  I  will  not  have  this  room 
shunned  as  if  it  were  infected,  at  the  pleasure  of  a  child. 
Sit  down." 

He  ordered  me  like  a  dog,  and  I  obeyed  like  a  dog. 

"  One  thing  more,"  he  said.  "  I  observe  that  you  have 
an  attachment  to  loiv  and  common  company.     You  are  not 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  '       123 

to  associate  with  servants.  The  kitchen  will  not  improve 
you,  in  the  many  respects  in  which  you  need  improvement. 
Of  the  woman  who  abets  you,  I  say  nothing — since  you, 
Clara,"  addressing  my  mother  in  a  lower  voice,  *'  from  old 
associations  and  long-established  fancies,  have  a  weakness 
respecting  her  which  is  not  yet  overcome." 

"  A  most  unaccountable  delusion  it  is  !"  cried  Miss  Murd- 
stone. 

"  I  only  say,"  he  resumed,  addressing  me,  "  that  I  disap- 
prove of  your  preferring  such  company  as  Mistress  Peg- 
gotty,  and  that  it  is  to  be  abandoned.  Now,  David,  you 
understand  me,  and  you  know  what  will  be  the  consequence 
if  you  fail  to  obey  me  to  the  letter." 

I  knew  well — better  perhaps  than  he  thought,  as  far  as  my 
poor  mother  was  concerned — and  I  obeyed  him  to  the  letter. 
I  retreated  to  my  own  room  no  more;  I  took  refuge  with 
Peggotty  no  more;  but  sat  wearily  in  the  parlor  day  after 
day,  looking  forward  to  night,  and  bed-time. 

What  irksome  constraint  I  underwent,  sitting  in  the  same 
attitude  hours  upon  hours,  afraid  to  move  an  arm  or  a  leg 
lest  Miss  Murdstone  should  complain  (as  she  did  on  the 
least  pretense)  of  my  restlessness,  and  afraid  to  move  an  eye 
lest  it  should  light  on  some  look  of  disHke  or  scrutiny  that 
would  find  new  cause  for  complaint  in  mine  !  What  in- 
tolerable dullness  to  sit  listening  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock; 
and  watching  Miss  Murdstone's  little  shiny  steel  beads  as 
she  strung  them;  and  wondering  whether  she  would  ever  be 
married,  and  if  so,  to  what  sort  of  unhappy  man;  and  count- 
ing the  divisions  in  the  molding  on  the  chimney-piece; 
and  wandering  away,  with  my  eyes,  to  the  ceiling,  among 
the  curls  and  corkscrews  in  the  paper  on  the  wall  ! 

What  walks  I  took  alone,  down  muddy  lanes,  in  the  bad 
winter  weather,  carrying  that  parlor,  and  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  in  it,  everywhere:  a  monstrous  load  that  I  was 
obliged  to  bear,  a  day-mare  that  there  was  no  possibility  of 
breaking  in,  a  weight  that  brooded  on  my  wits,  and  blunted 
them  ! 

What  meals  I  had  in  silence  and  embarrassment,  always 
feeling  that  there  were  a  knife  and  fork  too  many,  and  that 
mine;  an  appetite  too  many,  and  that  mine;  a  plate  and 
chair  too  many,  and  those  mine;  a  somebody  too  many,  and 
that  I ! 

What  evenings,  when  the  candles  came,  and  I  was  e»- 


124  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

pected  to  employ  myself,  but,  not  daring  to  read  an  enter- 
taining book,  pored  over  some  hard-headed,  and  harder- 
hearted  treatise  on  arithmetic;  when  the  tables  of  weights 
and  measures  set  themselves  to  tunes,  as  Rule  Britannia,  or 
Away  with  Melancholy;  and  wouldn't  stand  still  to  be 
learned,  but  would  go  threading  my  grandmother's  needle 
through  my  unfortunate  head,  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the 
other  ! 

What  yawns  and  dozes  I  lapsed  into,  in  spite  of  all  my 
care;  what  starts  I  came  out  of  concealed  sleeps  with;  what 
answers  I  never  got,  to  little  observations  that  I  rarely 
made;  what  a  blank  space  I  seemed,  which  everybody  over- 
looked, and  yet  was  in  everybody's  way;  what  a  heavy  relief 
it  was  to  hear  Miss  Murdstone  hail  the  first  stroke  of  nine 
at  night,  and  order  me  to  bed  ! 

Thus  the  holidays  lagged  away,  until  the  morning  came 
when  Miss  Murdstone  said:  "  Here's  the  last  day  off !" 
and  gave  me  the  closing  cup  of  tea  of  the  vacation. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  go.  I  had  lapsed  into  a  stupid  state; 
but  I  was  recovering  a  little  and  looking  forward  to  Steer- 
forth,  albeit  Mr.  Creakle  loomed  behind  him.  Again  Mr. 
Barkis  appeared  at  the  gate,  and  again  Miss  Murdstone  in 
her  warning  voice  said:  "  Clara !"  when  my  mother  bent 
ox^er  me,  to  bid  me  farewell. 

I  kissed  her,  and  my  baby  brother,  and  was  very  sorr) 
then;  but  not  sorry  to  go  away,  for  the  gulf  between  us  was 
there,  and  the  parting  was  there,  every  day.  And  it  is  not 
so  much  the  embrace  she  gave  me,  that  lives  in  my  mind, 
though  it  was  as  fervent  as  could  be,  as  what  followed  the 
embrace. 

I  was  in  the  carrier's  cart  when  I  heard  her  calling  to  me. 
I  looked  out,  and  she  stood  at  the  garden-gate  alone,  hold- 
ing her  baby  up  in  her  arms  for  me  to  see.  It  was  cold, 
still  weather;  and  not  a  hair  of  her  head,  or  a  fold  of  her 
dress,  was  stirred,  as  she  looked  intently  at  me,  holding  up 
her  child. 

So  I  lost  her.  So  I  saw  her  afterwards,  in  my  sleep  at 
school — a  silent  presence  near  my  bed — looking  at  me  with 
the  same  intent  face — holding  up  her  baby  in  her  arms. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  i«5 

CHAPTER   IX. 

I  HAVE  A  MEMORABLE  BIRTHDAY. 

I  PASS  over  all  that  happened  at  school,  until  the  anni- 
versary of  my  birthday  came  round  in  March.  Except  that 
Steerforth  was  more  to  be  admired  than  ever,  I  remember 
nothing.  He  was  going  away  at  the  end  of  the  half-year, 
if  not  sooner,  and  was  more  spirited  and  independent  than 
before  in  my  eyes,  and  therefore  more  engaging  than  be- 
fore; but  beyond  this  I  remember  nothing.  The  great  re- 
membrance by  which  that  time  is  marked  in  my  mind,  seems  to 
have  swallowed  up  all  lesser  recollections,  and  to  exist  alone. 

It  is  even  difficult  for  me  to  believe  that  there  was  a  gap 
of  full  two  months  between  my  return  to  Salem  House  and 
the  arrival  of  that  birthday.  I  can  only  understand  that 
the  fact  was  so,  because  I  know  it  must  have  been  so;  other- 
wise I  should  feel  convinced  that  there  was  no  interval,  and 
that  the  one  occasion  trod  upon  the  other's  heels. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  kind  of  day  it  was  !  I  smell  the 
fog  that  hung  about  the  place;  I  see  the  hoar  frost,  ghostly, 
through  it;  I  feel  my  rimy  hair  fall  clammy  on  my  cheek;  I 
look  along  the  dim  perspective  of  the  schoolroom,  with  a 
sputtering  candle  here  and  there  to  light  up  the  foggy  morn- 
ing, and  the  breath  of  the  boys  wreathing  and  smoking  in 
the  raw  cold  as  they  blow  upon  their  lingers,  and  tap  their 
feet  upon  the  floor. 

ft  was  after  breakfast,  and  we  had  been  summoned  in  from 
the  play-ground,  when  Mr.  Sharp  entered  and  said: 

"  David  Copperfield  is  to  go  into  the  parlor." 

I  expected  a  hamper  from  Peggotty,  and  brightened  at 
the  order.  Some  of  the  boys  about  me  put  in  their  claim 
not  to  be  forgotten  in  the  distribution  of  the  good  things, 
as  I  got  out  of  my  seat  with  great  alacrity. 

"  Don't  hurry,  David,"  said  Mr.  Sharp.  "  There's  time 
enough,  my  boy,  don't  hurry." 

I  might  have  been  surprised  by  the  feeling  tone  in  which 
he  spoke,  if  I  had  given  it  a  thought;  but  I  gave  it  none 
until  afterwards.  I  hurried  away  to  the  parlor;  and  there 
I  found  Mr.  Creakle  sitting  at  his  breakfast  with  the  cane 
and  a  newspaper  before  him,  and  Mrs.  Creakle  with  an 
opened  letter  in  her  hand.     But  no  hamper. 


t26  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  David  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  leading  me  to  a 
sofa,  and  sitting  down  beside  me.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
very  particularly.     I  have  something  to  tell  you,  my  child.'* 

Mr.  Creakle,  at  whom  of  course,  I  looked,  shook  his  head 
without  looking  at  me,  and  stopped  up  a  sigh  with  a  very 
large  piece  of  buttered  toast. 

"  You  are  too  young  to  know  how  the  world  changes 
every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  "and  how  the  people  in  it 
pass  away.  But  we  all  have  to  learn  it,  David  ;  some  of  us 
when  we  are  young,  some  of  us  when  we  are  old,  some  of  us 
at  all  times  of  our  lives." 

I  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  When  you  came  away  from  home  at  the  end  of  the  va- 
cation," said  Mrs.  Creakle,  after  a  pause,  "  were  they  all 
well  ?"    And  after  another  pause,  "  Was  your  mamma  well  ?" 

I  trembled  without  distinctly  knowing  why,  and  still 
looked  at  her  earnestly,  making  no  attempt  to  answer. 

"  Because,"  said  she,  "  I  grieve  to  tell  you  that  I  hear  this 
morning  your  mamma  is  very  ill." 

A  mist  arose  between  Mrs.  Creakle  and  me,  and  her  figure 
seemed  to  move  in  it  for  an  instant.  Then  I  felt  the  burn- 
ing tears  run  down  my  face,  and  it  was  steady  again. 

"  She  is  very  dangerously  ill,"  she  added. 

I  knew  all  now. 

*' She  is  dead." 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  so,  I  had  already  broken  out 
into  a  desolate  cry,  and  felt  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world. 

She  was  very  kind  to  me.  She  kept  me  there  all  day,,  and 
left  me  alone  sometimes  ;  and  I  cried,  and  wore  myself  to 
sleep,  and  awoke  and  cried  again.  When  I  could  cry  no  . 
more,  I  began  to  think  ;  and  then  the  oppression  on  my 
breast  was  heaviest,  and  my  grief  a  dull  pain  that  there  was 
no  ease  for. 

And  yet  my  thoughts  were  idle  ;  not  intent  on  the  calam- 
ity that  weighed  upon  my  heart,  but  idly  loitering  near  it. 
I  thought  of  our  house  shut  up  and  hushed.  I  thought  of 
the  little  baby,  who,  Mrs.  Creakle  said,  had  been  pining 
away  for  some  time,  and  who  they  believed,  would  die  too. 
I  thought  of  my  father's  grave  in  the  churchyard,  by  our 
house,  and  of  my  mother  lying  there  beneath  the  tree  I  knew 
so  well.  I  stood  upon  a  chair  when  I  was  left  alone,  and 
looked  into  the  glass  to  see  how  red  my  eyes  were,  and  how 
sorrowful  my  face.     I  considered,  after  some  hours  were 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  lay 

gone,  if  my  tears  were  really  hard  to  flow  now,  as  they 
seemed  to  be,  what,  in  connection  with  my  loss,  it  would  af- 
fect me  most  to  think  of  when  I  drew  near  home — for  I  was 
going  home  to  the  funeral.  I  am  sensible  of  having  felt 
that  a  dignity  attached  to  me  among  the  rest  of  the  boys, 
and  that  I  was  important  in  my  affliction. 

If  ever  child  were  stricken  with  sincere  grief,  I  was.  But 
I  remember  that  this  importance  was  a  kind  of  satisfaction 
to  me,  when  I  walked  in  the  playground  that  afternoon 
while  the  boys  were  in  school.  When  I  saw  them  glancing 
at  me  out  of  the  windows,  as  they  went  up  to  their  classes, 
I  felt  distinguished,  and  looked  more  melancholy,  and 
walked  slower.  When  school  was  over,  and  they  came  out 
and  spoke  to  me,  I  felt  it  rather  good  in  myself  not  to  be 
proud  to  any  of  them,  and  to  take  exactly  the  same  notice 
of  them  all,  as  before. 

I  was  to  go  home  next  night  ;  not  by  the  mail,  but  by  the 
heavy  night-coach,  which  was  called  the  Farmer,  and  was 
principally  used  by  country-people  travelling  short  interme- 
diate distances  upon  the  road.  We  had  no  story  telling  that 
evening,  and  Traddles  insisted  on  lending  me  his  pillow.  I 
don't  know  what  good  he  thought  it  would  do  me,  for  I  had 
one  of  my  own  ;  but  it  was  all  he  had  to  lend,  poor  fellow, 
except  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  full  of  skeletons  ;  and  that  he 
gave  me  at  parting,  as  a  soother  of  my  sorrows  and  a  contri- 
bution to  my  peace  of  mind. 

I  left  Salem  House  upon  the  morrow  afternoon.  I  little 
thought  then  that  I  left  it,  never  to  return.  We  traveled 
very  slowly  all  night,  and  did  not  get  into  Yarmouth  before 
nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  looked  out  for  Mr. 
Barkis,  but  he  was  not  there  ;  and  instead  of  him  a  fat, 
short-winded,  merry-looking,  little  old  man  in  black,  with 
rusty  little  bunches  of  ribbons  at  the  knees  of  his  breeches, 
black  stockings,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  came  puffing  up 
to  the  coach  window,  and  said  : 

"Master  Copperfield!" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  young  sir,  if  you  please,"  he 
said,  opening  the  door,  "  and  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
taking  you  home." 

I  put  my  hand  in  his,  wondering  who  he  was,  and  we 
walked  away  to  a  shop  in  a  narrow  street,  on  which  wa& 
written  Omer,  Draper,  Tailor,  Haberdasher,  Funeral. 


128  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Furnisher,  &c.  It  was  a  close  and  stifling  little  shop;  full 
of  all  sorts  of  clothing,  made  and  unmade,  including  one 
window  full  of  beaver-hats  and  bonnets.  We  went  into  a 
little  back-parlor  behind  the  shop,  where  we  found  three 
young  women  at  work  on  a  quantity  of  black  materials, 
which  were  heaped  upon  the  table,  and  Httle  bits  and  cut- 
tings of  which  were  littered  all  over  the  floor.  There  was 
a  good  fire  in  the  room,  and  a  breathless  smell  of  warm 
black  crape — I  did  not  know  what  the  smell  was  then,  but 
I  know  now. 

The  three  young  women,  who  appeared  to  be  very  indus- 
trious and  comfortable,  raised  their  heads  to  look  at  me,  and 
then  went  on  with  their  work.  Stitch,  stitch,  stitch.  At 
the  same  time  there  came  from  a  workshop  across  a  little 
yard  outside  the  window,  a  regular  sound  of  hammering 
that  kept  a  kind  of  tune;  Rat — tat  tat,  rat — tat-tat,  rat 
— tat-tat,  without  any  variation. 

"Well,"  said  my  conductor  to  one  of  the  three  young 
women.     "  How  do  you  get  on,  Minnie  ?" 

"We  shall  be  ready  by  the  trying-on  time,"  she  replied 
gaily,  without  looking  up.     "  Don't  you  be  afraid,  father." 

Mr.  Omer  took  off  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  sat  down 
and  panted.  He  was  so  fat  that  he  was  obliged  to  pant 
some  time  before  he  could  say: 

"  That's  right." 

"  Father  !"  said  Minnie  playfully.  '*  What  a  porpoise  you 
do  grow !" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  con- 
sidering about  it.     "  I  am  rather  so." 

"  You  are  such  a  comfortable  man,  you  see,"  said  Minnie. 
"  You  take  things  so  easy." 

"  No  use  taking  'em  otherwise,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Omer. 

"  No,  indeed,"  returned  his  daughter.  "  We  are  all  pretty 
gay  here,  thank  Heaven  !     Ain't  we,  father  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  As  I  have  got 
my  breath  now,  I  think  I'll  measure  this  young  scholar. 
Would  you  walk  into  the  shop.  Master  Copperfield  ?" 

I  preceded  Mr.  Omer,  in  compliance  with  his  request; 
and  after  showing  me  a  roll  of  cloth  which  he  said  was  eS:tra 
super,  and  too  good  mourning  for  anything  short  of  parents, 
he  took  my  various  dimensions,  and  put  them  down  in  a 
book.  While  he  was  recording  them  he  called  my  attention 
to  his  stock  in  trade,  and  to  certain  fashions  which  he  said 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  129 

had  "  just  come  up,"  and  to  certain  other  fashions  which  he 
said  had  "just  gone  out." 

*'  And  by  that  sort  of  thing  we  very  often  lose  a  Httle  mint 
of  money,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  But  fashions  are  Hke  human 
beings.  They  come  in,  nobody  knows  when,  why,  or  how; 
and  they  go  out,  nobody  knows  when,  why,  or  how.  Every- 
thing is  like  life,  in  my  opinion,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that 
point  of  view." 

I  was  too  sorrowful  to  discuss  the  question,  which  would 
possibly  have  been  beyond  me  under  any  circumstances; 
and  Mr.  Omer  took  me  back  into  the  parlor,  breathing  with 
some  difficulty  on  the  way. 

He  then  called  down  a  little  break-neck  range  of  steps 
behind  a  door:  "  Bring  up  that  tea  and  bread-and-butter  !" 
which,  after  some  time,  during  which  I  sat  looking  about 
me  and  thinking,  and  listening  to  the  stitching  in  the  room, 
and  the  tune  that  was  being  hammered  across  the  yard, 
appeared  on  a  tray,  and  turned  out  to  be  for  me. 

"  I  have  been  acquainted  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  after 
watching  me  for  some  minutes,  during  which  I  had  not 
made  much  impression  on  the  breakfast,  for  the  black  things 
destroyed  my  appetite,  "  I  have  been  acquainted  with  you 
a  long  time,  my  young  friend." 

"  Have  you,  sir  ?" 

"  All  your  life,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  I  may  say  before  it. 
I  knew  your  father  before  you.  He  was  five  foot  nine 
and  a  half,  and  he  lays  in  five  and  twen-ty  foot  of  ground." 

"  Rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,"  across  the 
yard. 

"  He  lays  in  five  and  twen-ty  foot  of  ground,  if  he  lays  in 
a  fraction,"  said  Mr.  Omer  pleasantly.  "  It  was  either  his 
request  or  her  direction,  I  forget  which." 

"  Do  you  know  how  my  little  brother  is,  sir  ?"  I  inquired, 

Mr.  Omer  shook  his  head. 

"Rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat." 

**  He  is  in  his  mother's  arms,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  poor  little  fellow  !     Is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Don't  mind  it  more  than  you  can  help,"  said  Mr.  Omer. 
•*Yes.     The  baby's  dead." 

My  wounds  broke  out  afresh  at  this  intelligence.  I  left 
the  scarcely-tasted  breakfast,  and  went  and  rested  my  head 
on  another  table  in  the  corner  of  the  little  room,  which 
Minnie  hastily  cleared,  lest  I  should  spot  the  mourning  that 


ijo  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

was  lying  there  with  my  tears.  She  was  a  pretty,  good-na- 
tured girl,  and  put  my  hair  away  from  my  eyes  with  a  soft 
kind  touch;  but  she  was  very  cheerful  at  having  nearly 
finished  her  work  and  being  in  good  time,  and  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  me. 

Presently  the  tune  left  off,  and  a  good-looking  young  fel- 
low came  across  the  yard  into  the  room.  He  had  a  ham- 
mer in  his  hand,  and  his  mouth  was  full  of  little  nails,  which 
he  was  obliged  to  take  out  before  he  could  speak.' 

"  Well,  Joram  !"  said  Mr.  Omer.     "  How  do  you  get  on  ?'* 

"  All  right,"  said  Joram.     "  Done,  sir." 

Minnie  colored  a  little,  and  the  other  two  girls  smiled  at 
one  another. 

"  What !  you  were  at  it  by  candle-light  last  night,  when  I 
was  at  the  club,  then  ?  Were  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Omer,  shut- 
ting up  one  eye. 

*^Yes,"  said  Joram.  "  As  you  said  we  could  make  a  little 
trip  of  it,  and  go  over  together,  if  it  was  done,  Minnie  and 
me — and  you." 

*'  Oh  !  I  thought  you  were  going  to  leave  me  out  alto- 
gether," said  Mr.  Omer,  laughing  till  he  coughed. 

" — -As  you  was  so  good  as  to  say  that,"  resumed  the  young 
man,  "  why  I  turned  to  with  a  will,  you  see.  Will  you  give 
me  your  opinion  of  it  ?" 

"  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  rising.  "  My  dear;"  and  he 
stopped  and  turned  to  me;  "  would  you  like  to  see  your — " 

"  No,  father,"  Minnie  interposed. 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  agreeable,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Omer.     "  But  perhaps  you're  right." 

I  can't  say  how  I  knew  it  was  my  dear,  dear  mother's 
coffin  that  they  went  to  look  at.  I  had  never  heard  one 
making;  I  had  never  seen  one  that  I  know  of:  but  it  came 
into  my  mind  what  the  noise  was,  while  it  was  going  on; 
and  when  the  young  man  entered,  I  am  sure  I  knew  what 
he  had  been  doing. 

The  work  being  now  finished,  the  two  girls,  whose  names 
I  had  not  heard,  brushed  the  shreds  and  threads  from  their 
dresses,  and  went  into  the  shop  to  put  that  to  rights,  and 
wait  for  customers.  Minnie  stayed  behind  to  fold  up  what 
they  had  made,  and  pack  it  into  baskets.  This  she  did  up- 
on her  knees,  humming  a  lively  little  tune  the  while.  Joram, 
who  I  had  no  doubt  was  her  lover,  came  in  and  stole  a  kiss 
from  her  while  she  was  busy  (he  didn't  appear  to  mind  me. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  131 

at  all),  and  said  her  father  was  gone  for  the  chaise,  and  he 
must  make  haste  and  get  himself  ready.  Then  he  went  out 
again;  and  then  she  put  her  thimble  and  scissors  in  her 
pocket,  and  stuck  a  needle  threaded  with  black  thread  neatly 
in  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  and  put  on  her  outer  clothing 
smartly,  at  a  little  glass  behind  the  door,  in  which  I  saw  the 
reflection  of  her  pleased  face. 

All  this  I  observed,  sitting  at  the  table  in  the  corner  with 
my  head  leaning  on  my  hand,  and  my  thoughts  running  on 
very  different  things.  The  chaise  soon  came  round  to  the 
front  of  the  shop,  and  the  baskets  being  put  in  first,  1  was 
put  in  next,  and  those  three  followed.  I  remember  it  as  a 
kind  of  half  chaise-cart,  half  piano-forte  van,  painted  of  a 
somber  color,  and  drawn  by  a  black  horse  with  a  long  tail. 
There  was  plenty  of  room  for  us  all. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  experienced  so  strange  a  feeling 
in  my  life  (I  am  wiser  now,  perhaps)  as  that  of  being  with 
them,  remembering  how  they  had  been  employed,  and  seeing 
them  enjoy  the  ride.  I  was  not  angry  with  them;  I  was  more 
afraid  of  them,  as  if  I  were  cast  away  among  creatures  with 
whom  I  had  no  community  of  nature.  They  were  very 
cheerful.  The  old  man  sat  in  front  to  drive  and  the  two 
young  people  sat  behind  him,  and  whenever  he  spoke  to 
them  leaned  forward,  the  one  on  one  side  of  his  chubby  face, 
and  the  other  on  the  other,  and  made  a  great  deal  of  him. 
They  would  have  talked  to  me  too,  but  I  held  back,  and 
moped  in  my  corner;  scared  by  their  love-making  and  hil- 
arity,  though  it  was  far  from  boisterous,  and  almost  wonder- 
ing that  no  judgment  came  upon  them  for  their  hardness  of 
heart. 

So,  when  they  stopped  to  bait  the  horse,  and  ate  and 
drank  and  enjoyed  themselves,  I  could  touch  nothing  that 
they  touched,  but  kept  my  fast  unbroken.  So,  when  we 
reached  home,  I  dropped  out  of  the  chaise  behind,  as  quickly 
as  possible,  that  I  might  not  be  in  their  company  before 
those  solemn  windows,  looking  blindly  on  me  like  closed 
eyes  once  bright.  And  oh,  how  little  need  I  had  had  to  think 
what  would  move  me  to  tears  when  I  came  back — seeing 
the  window  of  my  mother's  room,  and  next  to  that  which, 
in  the  better  time,  was  mine  1 

I  was  in  Peggotty's  arms  before  I  got  to  the  door,  and 
she  took  me  into  the  house.  Her  grief  burst  out  when  she 
first  saw  me;    but    she    controlled    it  soon,   and    spoke  in 


132  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

whispers,  and  walked  softly,  as  if  the  dead  could  be  dis- 
turbed. She  had  not  been  in  bed,  I  found,  for  a  long  time. 
She  sat  up  at  night  still,  and  watched.  As  long  as  her  poor 
dear  pretty  was  above  the  ground,  she  said,  she  would  never 
desert  her. 

Mr.  Murdstone  took  no  heed  of  me  when  I  went  into  the 
parlor  where  he  was,  but  sat  by  the  fireside,  weeping  silently, 
and  pondering  in  his  elbow-chair.  Miss  Murdstone,  who 
was  busy  at  her  writing-desk,  which  was  covered  with  letters 
and  papers,  gave  me  her  cold  finger-nails,  and  asked  me,  in 
an  iron  whisper,  if  I  had  been  measured  for  my  mourning. 

1  said:  "Yes." 

"  And  your  shirts,"  said  Miss  Murdstone;  "  have  you 
brought  'em  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     I  have  brought  home  all  my  clothes." 

This  was  all  the  consolation  that  her  firmness  administered 
to  me.  I  do  not  doubt  that  she  had  a  choice  pleasure  in 
exhibiting  what  she  called  her  self-command,  and  her  firm- 
ness, and  her  strength  of  mind,  and  her  common  sense,  and 
the  whole  diabolical  catalogue  of  her  unamiable  qualities, 
on  such  an  occasion.  She  was  particularly  proud  of  her 
turn  for  business;  and  she  showed  it  now  in  reducing  every- 
thing to  pen  and  ink,  and  being  moved  by  nothing.  All 
the  rest  of  that  day,  and  from  morning  to  night  afterwards, 
she  sat  at  that  desk;  scratching  composedly  with  a  hard 
pen,  speaking  in  the  same  imperturbable  whisper  to  every- 
body; never  relaxing  a  muscle  of  her  face,  or  softening  a  tone 
of  her  voice,  or  appearing  with  an  atom  of  her  dress  astray. 

Her  brother  took  a  book  sometimes,  but  never  read  it  that 
I  saw.  He  would  open  it  and  look  at  it  as  if  he  were  read- 
ing, but  would  remain  for  a  whole  hour  without  turning  the 
leaf,  and  then  put  it  down  and  walk  to  and  fro  in  the  room. 
I  used  to  sit  with  folded  hands  watching  him,  and  counting 
his  footsteps  hour  after  hour.  He  very  seldom  spoke  to  her, 
and  never  to  me.  He  seemed  to  be  the  only  restless  thing, 
except  the  clock,  in  the  whole  motionless  house. 

In  these  days  before  the  funeral,  I  saw  but  little  of  Peg- 
gotty  except  that,  in  passing  up  or  down  stairs,  I  always 
found  her  close  to  the  room  where  my  mother  and  her  baby 
lay,  and  except  that  she  came  to  me  every  night,  and  sat  by 
my  bed's  head  while  I  went  to  sleep.  A  day  or  two  before 
the  burial — I  think  it  was  a  day  or  two  before,  but  I  am 
conscious  of  confusion  in  my  mind  about  that  heavy  time, 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  133 

with  nothing  to  mark  its  progress — she  took  me  into  the 
room.  I  only  recollect  that  underneath  some  white  covering 
on  the  bed,  with  a  beautiful  cleanliness  and  freshness  all 
around  it,  there  seemed  to  me  to  lie  embodied  the  solemn 
stillness  that  was  in  the  house;  and  that  when  she  would 
have  turned  the  cover  gently  back,  I  cried:  *'  Oh  no  !  oh  no  !" 
and  held  her  hand. 

If  the  funeral  had  been  yesterday,  I  could  not  recollect  it 
better.  The  very  air  of  the  best  parlor,  when  I  went  in  at 
the  door,  the  bright  condition  of  the  fire,  the  shining  of  the 
wine  in  the  decanters,  the  patterns  of  the  glasses  and  plates, 
the  faint  sweet  smell  of  cake,  the  odor  of  Miss  Murdstone's 
dress,  and  our  black  clothes.  Mr.  Chillip  is  in  the  room, 
and  comes  to  speak  to  me. 

*'  And  how  is  Master  David  V  he  says  kindly. 

I  cannot  tell  him  very  well.  I  give  him  my  hand,  which 
he  holds  in  his. 

"  Dear  me  !"  says  Mr.  Chillip,  meekly  smiling,  with  some- 
thing shining  in  his  eye.  "  Our  little  friends  grow  up  around 
us.     They  grow  out  of  our  knowledge,  ma'am  ?" 

This  is  to  Miss  Murdstone,  who  makes  no  reply. 

"  There  is  a  great  improvement  here,  ma'am  !"  says  Mr. 
ChiUip. 

Miss  Murdstone  merely  answers  with  a  frown  and  a  formal 
bend;  Mr.  Chillip,  discomfited,  goes  into  a  corner,  keeping 
me  with  him,  and  opens  his  mouth  no  more. 

I  remark  this,  because  I  remark  everything  that  happens, 
not  because  I  care  about  myself,  or  have  done  since  I  came 
home.  And  now  the  bell  begins  to  sound,  and  Mr.  Omer 
and  another  come  to  make  us  ready.  As  Peggotty  was  wont 
to  tell  me,  long  ago,  the  followers  of  my  father  to  the  same 
grave  were  made  ready  in  the  same  room. 

There  are  Mr.  Murdstone,  our  neighbor  Mr.  Grayper,  Mr. 
Chillip,  and  I.  When  we  go  out  to  the  door,  the  Bearers 
and  their  load  are  in  the  garden  ;  and  they  move  before  us 
down  the  path,  and  past  the  elms,  and  through  the  gate,  and 
into  the  church-yard  where  I  have  so  often  heard  the  birds 
sing  on  a  Summer  morning. 

We  stand  around  the  grave.  The  day  seems  different  to 
me  from  every  other  day,  and  the  light  not  of  the  same  color 
— of  a  sadder  color.  Now  there  is  a  solemn  hush,  which  we 
have  brought  from  home  with  what  is  resting  in  the  mold  ; 
and  while  we  stand  bareheaded,  I  hear  the  voice  of  the 


134  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

clergyman,  sounding  remote  in  the  open  air,  and  yet  distinct 
and  plain,  saying  :  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life, 
saith  the  Lord!"  Then  I  hear  sobs  ;  and,  standing  apart 
among  the  lookers-on,  I  see  that  good  and  faithful  servant, 
whom  of  all  the  people  upon  earth  I  love  the  best,  and  unto 
whom  my  childish  heart  is  certain  that  the  Lord  wall  one  day 
say  :  "Well  done." 

There  are  many  faces  that  I  know,  among  the  little  crowd; 
faces  that  I  knew  in  church,  when  mine  was  always  wonder- 
ing there  ;  faces  that  first  saw  my  mother,  when  she  came  to 
the  village  in  her  youthful  bloom.  I  do  not  mind  them — I 
mind  nothing  but  my  grief — and  yet  I  see  and  know  them 
all ;  and  even  in  the  background,  far  away,  see  Minnie  look- 
ing on,  and  her  eye  glancing  on  her  sweetheart,  who  is  near  me. 

It  is  over,  and  the  earth  is  filled  in,  and  we  turn  to  come 
away.  Before  us  stands  our  house,  so  pretty  and  unchanged, 
so  linked  in  my  mind  with  the  young  idea  of  what  is  gone, 
that  all  my  sorrow  has  been  nothing  to  the  sorrow  it  calls 
forth.  But  they  take  me  on  ;  and  Mr.  Chillip  talks  to  me  ; 
and  when  we  get  home,  puts  some  water  to  my  lips  ;  and 
when  I  ask  his  leave  to  go  up  to  my  room,  dismisses  me 
with  the  gentleness  of  a  woman. 

All  this,  I  say,  is  yesterday's  event.  Events  of  later  date 
have  floated  from  me  to  the  shore  where  all  forgotten  things 
will  reappear,  but  this  stands  like  a  high  rock  in  the  ocean. 

I  knew  that  Peggotty  would  come  to  me  in  my  room.  The 
Sabbath  stillness  of  the  time  (the  day  was  so  like  Sunday  ! 
I  have  forgotten  that)  was  suited  to  us  both.  She  sat  down 
by  my  side  upon  my  little  bed  ;  and  holding  my  hand,  and 
sometimes  putting  it  to  her  lips,  and  sometimes  smoothing 
it  with  hers,  as  she  might  have  comforted  my  little  brother, 
told  me,  in  her  way,  all  that  she  had  to  tell  concerning  what 
had  happened. 

"  She  was  never  well,"  said  Peggotty,  "  for  a  long  time. 
She  was  uncertain  in  her  mind,  and  not  happy.  When  her 
baby  was  born,  I  thought  at  first  she  would  get  better,  but 
she  was  more  delicate,  and  sunk  a  little  every  day.  She  used 
to  like  to  sit  alone  before  her  baby  came,  and  then  she 
cried;  but  afterwards  she  used  to  sing  to  it — so  soft,  that  I 
once  thought,  when  I  heard  her,  it  was  like  a  voice  up  in 
the  air,  that  was  rising  away. 

"  I  think  she  got  to  be  more  timid,  and  more  frightened- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  135 

like,  of  late;  and  that  a  hard  word  was  like  a  blow  to  her. 
But  she  was  always  the  same  to  me.  She  never  changed  to 
her  foolish  Peggotty,  didn't  my  sweet  girl." 

Here  Peggotty  stopped,  and  softly  beat  upon  my  hand  a 
little  while. 

"  The  last  time  that  I  saw  her  like  her  own  old  self,  was  the 
night  when  you  came  home,  my  dear.  The  day  you  went 
away,  she  said  to  me,  *  I  never  shall  see  my  pretty  darling 
again.     Something  tells  me  so,  that  tells  the  truth,  I  know.' 

"She  tried  to  hold  up  after  that;  and  many  a  time,  when 
they  told  her  she  was  thoughtless  and  light-hearted,  made 
believe  to  be  so;  but  it  was  all  a  bygone  then.  She  never 
told  her  husband  what  she  had  told  me — she  was  afraid  of 
saying  it  to  anybody  else — till  one  night,  a  little  more  than 
a  week  before  it  happened,  when  she  said  to  him:  '  My  dear, 
I  think  I  am  dying.' 

" '  It's  off  my  mind  now,  Peggotty,'  she  told  me,  when  I 
laid  her  in  her  bed  that  night.  '  He  will  believe  it  more  and 
more,  poor  fellow,  every  day  for  a  few  days  to  come;  and 
then  it  will  be  past.  I  am  very  tired.  If  this  is  sleep,  sit  by 
me  while  I  sleep:  don't  leave  me.  God  bless  both  my  chil- 
dren !     God  protect  and  keep  my  fatherless  boy  !' 

"  I  never  left  her  afterwards,"  said  Peggotty.  "  She  often 
talked  to  them  two  down  stairs — for  she  loved  them;  she 
couldn't  bear  not  to  love  any  one  who  was  about  her — but 
when  -they  went  away  from  her  bedside,  she  always  turned 
to  me,  as  if  there  was  rest  where  Peggotty  was,  and  never 
fell  asleep  in  any  other  way. 

"  On  the  last  night,  in  the' evening,  she  kissed  me,  and 
said:  '  If  my  baby  should  die  too,  Peggotty,  please  let  them 
lay  him  in  my  arms,  and  bury  us  together.'  (It  was  done; 
for  the  poor  lamb  lived  but  a  day  beyond  her.)  *  Let  my 
dearest  boy  go  with  us  to  our  resting-place,'  she  said,  *  and 
tell  him  that  his  mother,  when  she  lay  here,  blessed  him  not 
once,  but  a  thousand  times.'  " 

Another  silence  followed  this,  and  another  gentle  beating 
on  my  hand. 

"  It  was  pretty  far  in  the  night,"  said  Peggotty,  **  when 
she  asked  me  for  some  drink;  and  when  she  had  taken  it, 
gave  me  such  a  patient  smile,  the  dear  ! — so  beautiful  ! — 

"  Daybreak  had  come,  and  the  sun  was  rising,  when  she 
said  to  me,  how  kind  and  considerate  Mr.  Copperfield  had 
Always  been  to  her,  and  how  he  had  borne  with  her,  and 


136  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

told  her,  when  she  doubted  herself,  that  a  loving  heart  was 
better  and  stronger  than  wisdom,  and  that  he  was  a  happy 
man  in  hers.  *  Peggotty,  my  dear,'  she  said  then,  *  put  me 
nearer  to  you,'  for  she  was  very  weak.  '  Lay  your  good  arm 
underneath  my  neck,'  she  said,  '  and  turn  me  to  you,  for 
your  face  is  going  far  off,  and  I  want  it  to  be  near.'  I  put 
it  as  she  asked;  and  oh  Davy  !  the  time  had  come  when  my 
first  parting  words  to  you  were  true — when  she  was  glad  to 
lay  her  poor  head  on  her  stupid  cross  old  Peggotty's  arm — 
and  she  died  like  a  child  that  had  gone  to  sleep  !" 

Thus  ended  Peggotty's  narration.  From  the  moment  of 
my  knowing  of  the  death  of  my  mother,  the  idea  of  her  as 
she  had  been  of  late  had  vanished  from  me.  I  remembered 
her,  from  that  instant,  only  as  the  young  mother  of  my  ear- 
liest impressions,  who  had  been  used  to  wind  her  bright 
curls  round  and  round  her  finger,  and  to  dance  with  me  at 
twilight  in  the  parlor.  What  Peggotty  had  told  me  now, 
was  so  far  from  bringing  me  back  to  the  later  period,  that  it 
rooted  the  earlier  image  in  my  mind.  It  may  be  curious, 
but  it  is  true.  In  her  death  she  winged  her  way  back  to  her 
calm  untroubled  youth,  and  cancelled  all  the  rest. 

The  mother  who  lay  in  the  grave,  was  the  mother  of  my 
infancy,  the  little  creature  in  her  arms,  was  myself,  as  I  had 
once  been,  hushed  for  ever  on  her  bosom. 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  BECOME  NEGLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR. 

The  first  act  of  business  Miss  Murdstone  performed  ^yhen 
the  day  of  solemnity  was  over,  and  light  was  freely  admitted 
into  the  house,  was  to  give  Peggotty  a  month's  warning. 
Much  as  Peggotty  would  have  disUked  such  a  service,  1 
believe  she  would  have  retained  it,  for  my  sake,  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  best  upon  earth.  She  told  me  we  must  part, 
and  told  me  why;  and  we  condoled  with  one  ajiother,  in  all 
sincerity. 

As  to  me  or  my  future,  not  a  word  was  said,  or  a  step 
taken.  Happy  they  would  have  been,  I  dare  say,  if  they 
could  have  dismissed  me  at  a  month's  warning  too.  I 
mustered  courage  once,  to  ask  Miss  Murdstone  when  I  was 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  137 

going  back  to  school;  and  she  answered  dryly,  she  believed 
I  was  not  going  back  at  all.  I  was  told  nothing  more.  I 
was  very  anxious  to  know  what  was  going  to  be  done  with 
me,  and  so  was  Peggotty:  but  neither  she  nor  I  could  pick 
up  any  information  on  the  subject. 

There  was  one  change  in  my  condition,  which,  while  it 
relieved  me  of  a  great  deal  of  present  uneasiness,  might 
have  made  me,  if  I  had  been  capable  of  considering  it  closely, 
yet  more  uncomfortable  about  the  future.  It  was  this.  The 
constraint  that  had  been  put  upon  me  was  quite  abandoned. 
i  was  so  far  from  being  required  to  keep  my  dull  post  in  the 
parlor,  that  on  several  occasions,  when  I  took  my  seat  there. 
Miss  Murdstone  frowned  to  me  to  go  away.  I  was  so  far 
from  being  warned  off  from  Peggotty's  society,  that,  provided 
I  was  not  in  Mr.  Murdstone's  I  was  never  sought  out  or  in- 
quired for.  At  first  I  was  in  daily  dread  of  his  taking  my  ed- 
ucation in  hand  again,  or  of  Miss  Murdstone's  devoting  her- 
self to  it;  but  I  soon  began  to  think  that  such  fears  Were 
groundless,  and  that  all  I  had  to  anticipate  was  neglect. 

I  do  not  conceive  that  this  discovery  gave  me  much  pain 
then.  I  was  still  giddy  with  the  shock  of  my  mother's  death, 
and  in  a  kind  of  stunned  state  as  to  all  tributary  things.  I 
can  recollect,  indeed,  to  have  speculated,  at  odd  times,  on 
the  possibility  of  my  not  being  taught  any  more,  or  cared 
for  any  more;  and  growing  up  to  be  a  shabby  moody  man, 
lounging  an  idle  life  away,  about  the  village;  as  well  as  on 
the  feasibility  of  my  getting  rid  of  this  picture  by  going 
away  somewhere,  like  the  hero  in  a  story,to  seek  my  fortune; 
but  these  were  transient  visions,  day  dreams  I  sat  looking  at 
sometimes,  as  if  they  were  faintly  painted  or  written  on  the 
wall  of  my  room,  and  which,  as  they  melted  away,  left  the 
wall  blank  again. 

"  Peggotty,"  I  said  in  a  thoughtful  whisper,  one  evening, 
when  I  was  warming  my  hands  at  the  kitchen  fire,  ''  Mr. 
Murdstone  likes  me  less  than  he  used  to.  He  never  liked 
me  much,  Peggotty;  but  he  would  rather  not  even  see  me 
now,  if  he  can  help  it." 

"  Perhaps  it's  his  sorrow,"  said  Peggotty,  stroking  my  hair. 

"  I  am  sure,  Peggotty,  I  am  sorry  too.  If  I  believed  it  was 
his  sorrow,  I  should  not  think  of  it  at  all.  But  it's  not  that; 
oh,  no,  it's  not  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  it's  not  that  ?"  said  Peggotty  after  a 
silence. 


138  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Oh,  his  sorrow  is  another  and  quite  a  different  thing. 
He  is  sorry  at  this  moment,  sitting  by  the  fireside  with  Miss 
Murdstone;  but  if  1  was  to  go  in,  Peggotty,  he  would  be 
something  besides." 

"  What  would  he  be  ?"  said  Peggotty. 

"  Angry,"  I  answered,  with  an  involuntary  imitation  of 
his  dark  frown.  "  If  he  was  only  sorry,  he  wouldn't  look  at 
me  as  he  does,     /am  only  sorry,  and  it  makes  mc  feel  kinder." 

Peggotty  said  nothing  for  a  little  while;  and  I  warmed 
my  hands,  as  silent  as  she. 

"  Davy,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Yes,  Peggotty  ?" 

"  I  have  tried,  my  dear,  all  ways  I  could  think  of — all  the 
ways  there  are,  and  all  the  ways  there  ain't,  in  short — to 
get  a  suitable  service  here,  in  Blunderstone;  but  there's  no 
such  a  thing,  my  love." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  Peggotty  ?"  says  I,  wist- 
fully, "  Do  you  mean  to  go  and  seek  your  fortune  ?" 

"  I  expect  I  shall  be  forced  to  go  to  Yarmouth,"  replied 
Peggotty,  "  and  live  there." 

"  You  might  have  gone  farther  off,"  I  said,  brightening  a 
little,  "  and  been  as  bad  as  lost.  I  shall  see  you  sometimes, 
my  dear  old  Peggotty,  there.  You  won't  be  quite  at  the 
other  end  of  the  world,  will  you  ?" 

"  Contrary  ways,  please  God  !"  cried  Peggotty,  with  great 
animation.  "  As  long  as  you  are  here,  my  pet,  I  shall  come 
over  every  week  of  my  life  to  see  you.  One  day,  every  week 
of  my  life  !" 

I  felt  a  great  weight  taken  off  my  mind  by  this  promise: 
but  even  this  was  not  all,  for  Peggotty  went  on  to  say: 

"  I'm  a  going,  Davy,  you  see,  to  my  brother's,  first,  for  an- 
other fortnight's  visit — just  till  I  have  had  time  to  look  about 
me,  and  get  to  be  something  like  myself  again.  Now,  I  have 
been  thinking,  that  perhaps,  as  they  don't  want  you  here  at 
present,  you  might  be  let  to  go  along  with  me." 

If  anything,  short  of  being  in  a  different  relation  to  every 
one  about  me,  Peggotty  excepted,  could  have  given  me  a 
sense  of  pleasure  at  that  time,  it  would  have  been  this  pro- 
ject of  all  others.  The  idea  of  being  again  surrounded  by 
those  honest  faces,  shining  welcome  on  me;  of  renewing  the 
peacefulness  of  the  sweet  Sunday  morning,  when  the  bells 
were  ringing,  the  stones  dropping  in  the  water,  and  the 
shadowy  ships  breaking  through  the  mist;  of  roaming  up  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  139 

down  with  little  Em'ly,  telling  her  my  troubles,  and  finding 
charms  against  them  in  the  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  beach; 
made  a  calm  in  my  heart.  It  was  rufifled  next  moment,  to 
be  sure,  by  a  doubt  of  Miss  Murdstone's  giving  her  consent; 
but  even  that  was  set  at  rest  soon,  for  she  came  out  to  take 
an  evening  grope  in  the  store-closet  while  we  were  yet  in 
conversation,  and  Peggotty,  with  a  boldness  that  amazed 
me,  broached  the  topic  on  the  spot. 

"  The  boy  will  be  idle  there,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  look- 
ing into  a  pickle-jar,  "  and  idleness  is  the  root  of  all  evil. 
But,  to  be  sure,  he  would  be  idle  here — or  anywhere,  in  my 
opinion."  . 

Peggotty  had  an  angry  answer  ready,  I  could  see;  but  she 
swallowed  it  for  my  sake,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Humph  !"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  still  keeping  her  eye  on 
the  pickles;  ''  it  is  of  more  importance  than  anything  else — 
it  is  of  paramount  importance — that  my  brother  should  not 
be  disturbed  or  made  uncomfortable.  I  suppose  I  had  bet- 
ter say  yes." 

I  thanked  her  without  making  any  demonstration  of  joy, 
lest  it  should  induce  her  to  withdraw  her  assent.  Nor  could 
I  help  thinking  this  a  prudent  course,  when  she  looked  at 
me  out  of  the  pickle-jar,  with  as  great  an  access  of  sourness 
as  if  her  black  eyes  had  absorbed  its  contents.  However, 
the  permission  was  given,  and  was  never  retracted;  for  when 
the  month  was  out,  Peggotty  and  I  were  ready  to  depart. 

Mr.  Barkis  came  into  the  house  for  Peggotty's  boxes.  I 
had  never  known  him  to  pass  the  garden-gate  before,  but  on 
this  occasion  he  came  into  the  house.  And  he  gave  me  a 
look,  as  he  shouldered  the  largest  box  and  went  out,  which 
I  thought  had  meaning  in  it,  if  meaning  could  ever  be  said 
to  find  its  way  into  Mr.  Barkis's  visage. 

Peggotty  was  naturally  in  low  spirits  at  leaving  what  had 
been  her  home  so  many  years,  and  where  the  two  strong  at- 
tachments of  her  life — for  my'mother  and  myself — had  been 
formed.  She  had  been  walking  in  the  churchyard,  too,  very 
early;  and  she  got  into  the  cart,  and  sat  in  it  with  her  hand- 
kerchief at  her  eyes. 

So  long  as  she  remained  in  this  condition  Mr.  Barkis  gave 
no  sign  of  life  whatever.  He  sat  in  his  usual  place  and  at- 
titude, like  a  great  stuffed  figure.  But  when  she  began  to 
look  about  her,  and  to  speak  to  me,  he  nodded  his  head  and 
grinned  several  times.  I  have  not  the  least  notion  at  whom, 
jr  what  he  meant  by  it. 


I40  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  day,  Mr.  Barkis  !"  I  said,  as  an  act  of  po- 
liteness. 

"  It  ain't  bad,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  who  generally  qualified 
his  speech,  and  rarely  committed  himself. 

"  Peggotty  is  quite  comfortable  now,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  re- 
marked, for  his  satisfaction. 

"  Is  she,  though  !"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

After  reflecting  about  it,  with  a  sagacious  air,  Mr.  Barkis 
eyed  her,  and  said: 

"  Are  you  pretty  comfortable  ?" 

Peggotty  laughed,  and  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  But  really  and  truly,  you  know.  Are  you  ?."  growled 
Mr.  Barkis,  sliding  nearer  to  her  on  the  seat,  and  nudging 
her  with  his  elbow.  "  Are  you  ?  Really  and  truly  pretty 
comfortable  ?  Are  you  ?  Eh  ?"  At  each  of  these  inquiries 
Mr.  Barkis  shuffled  nearer  to  her,  and  gave  her  another 
nudge;  so  that  we  were  all  crowded  together  in  the  left- 
hand  corner  of  the  cart,  and  I  was  so  squeezed  that  I  could 
hardly  bear  it. 

Peggotty  calling  his  attention  to  my  sufferings,  Mr.  Barkir 
gave  me  a  little  more  room  at  once,  and  got  away  by  de- 
grees. But  I  could  not  help  observing  that  he  seemed  to 
think  he  had  hit  upon  a  wonderful  expedient  for  expressing 
himself  in  a  neat,  agreeable,  and  pointed  manner,  without 
the  inconvenience  of  inventing  conversation.  He  manifestly 
chuckled  over  it  for  some  time.  By-and-by  he  turned  to 
Peggotty  again,  and  repeating,  "  Are  you  pretty  comfortable 
though  ?"  bore  down  upon  us  as  before,  until  the  breath  was 
nearly  wedged  out  of  my  body.  By-and-by  he  made  an- 
other descent  upon  us  with  the  same  inquiry,  and  the  same 
result.  At  length,  I  got  up  whenever  I  saw  him  coming, 
and  standing  on  the  foot-board,  pretended  to  look  at  the 
prospect;  after  which  I  did  very  well. 

He  was  so  polite  as  to  stop  at  a  public-house,  expressly  on 
our  account,  and  entertain  us  with  broiled  mutton  and  beer. 
Even  when  Peggotty  was  in  the  act  of  drinking,  he  was 
seized  with  one  of  those  approaches,  and  almost  choked  her. 
But  as  we  drew  nearer  to  the  end  of  our  journey,  he  had 
more  to  do  and  less  time  for  gallantry;  and  when  we  got  on 
Yarmouth  pavement,  we  were  all  too  much  shaken  and 
jolted,  I  apprehend,  to  have  any  leisure  for  anything  else. 

Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham  waited  for  us  at  the  old  place. 
They  received  me  and  Peggotty  in  an  affectionate  manneii 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  141 

and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Barkis,  who,  with  his  hat  on  the 
very  back  of  his  head,  and  a  shame-faced  leer  upon  his  coun- 
tenance, and  pervading  his  very  legs,  presented  but  a  vacant 
appearance,  I  thought.  They  each  took  one  of  Peggotty's 
trunks^  and  we  were  going  away,  when  Mr.  Barkis  solemnly 
made  a  sign  to  me  with  his  forefinger  to  come  under  an 
archway. 

"I  say,"  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  "it  was  all  right." 

I  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  answered,  with  an  attempt 
to  be  very  profound:  "Oh." 

"  It  didn't  come  to  an  end  there,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  nod- 
ding confidentially.     "  It  was  all  right." 

Again  I  answered:  "Oh  !" 

"  You  know  who  was  willin*,"  said  my  friend.  "  It  was 
Barkis  and  Barkis  only." 

I  nodded  assent. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  shaking  hands  ;  "I'm  a 
friend  of  your'n.     You  made  it  all  right,  first.     It's  all  right." 

In  his  attempts  to  be  particularly  lucid,  Mr.  Barkis  was  so 
extremely  mysterious,  that  I  might  have  stood  looking  in  his 
face  for  an  hour,  and  most  assuredly  should  have  got  as  much 
information  out  of  it  as  out  of  the  face  of  a  clock  that  had 
stopped,  but  for  Peggotty's  calling  me  away.  As  we  were 
going  along,  she  asked  me  what  he  had  said;  and  I  told  her 
he  had  said  it  was  all  right. 

"Like  his  impudence,"  said  Peggotty,  "but  I  don't  mind 
that !  Davy  dear,  what  should  you  think  if  I  was  to  think 
of  being  married  ?" 

"  Why — I  suppose  you  would  like  me  as  much  then,  Peg- 
gotty, as  you  do  now  ?"  I  returned,  after  a  little  consideration. 

Greatly  to  the  astonishment  of  the  passengers  in  the  street, 
as  well  as  of  her  relations  going  on  before,  the  good  soul 
was  obliged  to  stop  and  embrace  me  on  the  spot,  with  many 
protestations  of  her  unalterable  love. 

"  Tell  me  what  should  you  say,  darling  ?"  she  asked  again, 
when  this  was  over,  and  we  were  walking  on. 

"If  you  were  thinking  of  being  married — to  Mr.  Barkis, 
Peggotty  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggotty. 
*    "  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing.     For  then 
you  know,  Peggotty,  you  would  always  have  the  horse  and 
cart  to  bring  you  over  to  see  me,  and  could  come  for  noth- 
ing  and  be  sure  of  coming." 


142  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  The  sense  of  the  dear  !"  cried  Peggotty.  "  What  I  have 
been  thinking  of,  this  month  back  !  Yes,  my  precious;  and 
I  think  I  should  be  more  independent  altogether,  you  see; 
let  alone  my  working  with  a  better  heart  in  my  own  house, 
than  I  could  in  anybody  else's  now.  I  don't  know  what  I 
might  be  fit  for,  now,  as  a  servant  to  a  stranger.  And  I 
shall  be  always  near  my  pretty's  resting  place,"  said  Peg- 
gotty musing,  "  and  able  to  see  it  when  I  like;  and  when  7 
lie  down  to  rest,  I  may  be  laid  not  far  off  from  my  darling  girl!" 
We  neither  of  us  said  n.nything  for  a  little  while. 
"  But  I  wouldn't  so  much  as  give  it  another  thought,"  said 
Peggotty,  cheerily,  "  if  my  Davy  was  anyways  against  it — 
not  if  I  had  been  asked  in  church  thirty  times  three  times 
over,  and  was  wearing  out  the  ring  in  my  pocket." 

"  Look  at  me,  Peggotty,"  I  replied;  "  and  see  if  I  am  not 
really  glad,  and  don't  truly  wish  it !"  As  indeed  I  did,  with 
all  my  heart. 

"  Well,  my  life,"  said  Peggotty,  giving  me  a  squeeze,  "  I 
have  thought  of  it  night  and  day,  every  way  I  can,  and  I  hope 
the  right  way;  but  I'll  think  of  it  again,  and  speak  to  my 
brother  about  it,  and  in  the  meantime  we'll  keep  it  to  our- 
selves, Davy,  you  and  me.  Barkis  is  a  good  plain  creetur'," 
said  Peggotty,  "  and  if  I  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  him,  I  think 
it  would  be  my  fault  if  I  wasn't — if  I  wasn't  pretty  comfort- 
able," said  Peggotty,  laughing  heartily. 

This  quotation  from  Mr.  Barkis  was  so  appropriate,  and 
tickled  us  both  so  much,  that  we  laughed  again  and  again, 
and  were  quite  in  a  pleasant  humor  when  we  came  within 
view  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  cottage. 

It  looked  just  the  same,  except  that  it  may,  perhaps,  have 
shrunk  a  little  in  my  eyes;  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  waiting 
at  the  door  as  if  she  had  stood  there  ever  since.  All  within 
was  the  same,  down  to  the  seaweed  in  the  blue  mug  in  my 
bedroom.  I  went  into  the  out-house  to  look  about  me;  and 
the  very  same  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish  possessed  by  the 
same  desire  to  pinch  the  world  in  general,  appeared  to  be  in 
the  same  state  of  conglomeration  in  the  same  old  corner. 

But  there  was  no  little  Em'Iy  to  be  seen,  so  I  asked  Mr. 
Peggotty  where  she  was. 

"She's  at  school,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  wiping  the  heat 
consequent  on  the  porterage  of  Peggotty's  box  from  his  fore- 
head, *'  she'll  be  home,"  looking  at  the  Dutch  clock,  "  in  from 
twenty  minutes  to  half-an-hour's  time.  We  all  on  us  feel  the 
loss  of  her,  bless  ye  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFJELD.  143 

Mrs.  Gummidge  moaned. 

"  Cheer  up,  Mawther  !"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty. 
*   "  I  feel  it  more  than  anybody  else,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge; 
"  I'm  a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  she  used  to  be  a'most  the  only 
think  that  didn't  go  contrairy  with  me." 

Mrs.  Gummidge,  whimpering  and  shaking  her  head,  ap- 
plied herself  to  blowing  the  fire.  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking 
round  upon  us  while  she  was  so  engaged,  said  in  a  low  voice, 
which  he  shaded  with  his  hand:  "The  old  'un  !"  From 
this  I  rightly  conjectured  that  no  improvement  had  taken 
place  since  my  last  visit  in  the  state  of  Mrs.  Gummidge's 
spirit. 

Now,  the  whole  place  was,  or  it  should  have  been,  quite 
as  delightful  a  place  as  ever;  and  yet  it  did  not  impress  me 
in  the  same  way.  I  felt  rather  disappointed  with  it.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  little  Em'ly  was  not  at  home.  I  knew 
the  way  by  which  she  would  come,  and  presently  found  my- 
self strolling  along  the  path  to  meet  her. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  distance  before  long,  and  I  soon 
knew  it  to  be  Em'ly,  who  was  a  little  creature  still  in  stature, 
though  she  was  grown.  But  when  she  drew  nearer,  and  I 
saw  her  blue  eyes  looking  bluer,  and  her  dimpled  face  look- 
ing brighter,  and  her  whole  self  prettier  and  gayer,  a  curious 
feeling  came  over  me  that  made  me  pretend  not  to  know  her, 
and  pass  by  as  if  I  were  looking  at  something  a  long  way  off.  I 
have  done  such  a  thing  since  in  later  life,  or  I  am  mistaken. 

Little  Em'ly  didn't  care  a  bit.  She  saw  me  well  enough; 
but  instead  of  turning  round  and  calling  after  me,  ran  av/ay 
laughing.  This  obliged  me  to  run  after  her,  and  she  ran  so 
fast  that  we  were  very  near  the  cottage  before  I  caught  her. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?"  said  little  Em'ly. 

"  Why,  you  knew  who  it  was,  Em'ly  ?"  said  I. 

"  And  didn't  you  know  who  it  was  ?"  said  Em'ly.  I  was 
going  to  kiss  her,  but  she  covered  her  cherry  lips  with  her 
hands,  and  said  she  wasn't  a  baby,  now,  and  ran  away,  laugh- 
ing more  than  ever,  into  the  house. 

She  seemed  to  delight  in  teasing  me,  which  was  a  change 
in  her  I  wondered  at  very  much.  The  tea-table  was  ready 
and  our  little  locker  was  put  out  in  its  old  place,  but  instead 
of  coming  to  sit  by  me  she  went  and  bestowed  her  company 
upon  that  grumbling  Mrs.  Gummidge:  and  on  Mr.  Peggotty 's 
inquiring  why,  rumpled  her  hair  all  over  her  face  to  hide 
it,  and  would  do  nothing  but  laugh. 


144  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  A  little  puss,  it  is  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  patting  her  with 
his  great  hand. 

"  So  sh'  is  !  so  sh'  is  !"  cried  Ham.  "  Mas'r  Davy  bo',  so 
sh'  is  !"  and  he  sat  and  chuckled  at  her  for  some  time  in  a 
state  of  mingled  admiration  and  delight  that  made  his  face 
a  burning  red. 

Little  Em'ly  was  spoiled  by  them  all,  in  fact;  and  by  no 
one  more  than  Mr.  Peggotty  himself,  whom  she  could  have 
coaxed  into  anything,  by  only  going  and  laying  her  cheek 
against  his  rough  whisker.  That  was  my  opinion,  at  least, 
when  I  saw  her  do  it;  and  I  held  Mr.  Peggotty  to  be 
thoroughly  in  the  right.  But  she  was  so  affectionate  and 
sweet-natured,  and  had  such  a  pleasant  manner  of  being  both 
sly  and  shy  at  once,  that  she  captivated  me  more  than  ever. 

She  was  tender-hearted,  too;  for  when,  as  we  sat  round 
the  fire  after  tea,  an  allusion  was  made  by  Mr.  Peggotty 
over  his  pipe  to  the  loss  I  had  sustained,  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  looked  at  me  so  kindly  across  the  table, 
that  I  felt  quite  thankful  to  her. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  taking  up  her  curls,  and  run- 
ning them  over  his  hand  like  water,  "  here's  another  orphan, 
you  see,  sir.  And  here,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  giving  Ham  a 
back-handed  knock  in  the  chest,  "  is  another  of  'em,  though 
he  don't  look  much  like  it." 

"  If  I  had  you  for  my  guardian,  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said  I, 
shaking  my  head,  "  I  don't  think  I  should/?^/ much  hke it." 

"Well  said,  Mas'r  Davy  bo'!"  cried  Ham,  in  an  ecstasy. 
"  Hoorah  !  Well  said  !  Nor  more  you  wouldn't  !  Hor  ! 
Hor  !" — Here  he  returned  Mr.  Peggotty's  back-hander,  and 
little  Em'ly  got  up  and  kissed  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  And  how's  your  friend,  sir  ?"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to  me. 

"  Steerforth  ?"  said  I. 

"  That's  the  name  !"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty,  turning  to  Ham. 
"  I  knowed  it  was  something  in  our  way." 

"You  said  it  was  Rudderford,"  observed  Ham,  laughing. 

"Well?"  retorted  Mr.  Peggotty.  "And  ye  steer  with  a 
rudder  don't  ye  ?     It  ain't  fur  off.'    How  is  he,  sir  ?" 

"  He  was  very  well  indeed  when  I  came  away,  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty." 

"  There's  a  friend  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  stretching  out  his 
pipe.  "  There's  a  friend,  if  you  talk  of  friends  !  Why, 
Lord  love  my  heart  alive,  if  it  ain't  a  treat  to  look  at  him  !" 

"  He  is  very  handsome,  is  he  not  ?"  said  I,  my  heart  warm- 
ing with  this  praise. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  145 

"Handsome  !"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty.  "He  stands  up  to 
you  like — like  a — why  I  don't  know  what  he  don't  stand  up 
to  you  like.     He's  so  bold  !" 

"  Yes  !  That's  just  his  character,"  said  I.  "  He's  as  brave 
as  a  lion,  and  you  can't  think  how  frank  he  is,  Mr.  Peggotty." 

"  And  I  do  suppose  now,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at 
me  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe,  "  that  in  the  way  of  book- 
learning  he'd  take  the  wind  out  of  a'most  anything." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  delighted;  "  he  knows  everything.  He  is 
astonishingly  clever." 

"  There's  a  friend  !"  murmured  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  grave 
toss  of  his  head. 

"Nothing  seems  to  cost  him  any  trouble,"  said  I.  "He 
knows  a  task  if  he  only  looks  at  it.  He  is  the  best  cricketer 
you  ever  saw.  He  will  give  you  almost  as  many  men  as  you 
like  at  draughts,  and  beat  you  easily." 

Mr.  Peggotty  gave  his  head  another  toss,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"  Of  course  he  will." 

"  He  is  such  a  speaker,"  I  pursued,  "  that  he  can  win 
anybody  over;  and  I  don't  know  what  you'd  say  if  you  were 
to  hear  him  sing,  Mr.  Peggotty." 

Mr.  Peggotty  gave  his  head  another  toss,  as  much  as  to 
say:  "I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  Then,  he's  such  a  generous,  fine,  noble  fellow,"  said  I, 
quite  carried  away  by  my  favorite  theme,  "  that  it's  hardly 
possible  to  give  him  as  much  praise  as  he  deserves.  I  am 
sure  I  can  never  feel  thankful  enough  for  the  generosity 
with  which  he  has  protected  me,  so  much  younger  and  lower 
in  the  school  than  himself." 

I  was  running  on,  very  fast  indeed,  when  my  eyes  rested 
on  little  Em'ly's  face,  which  was  bent  forwf.rd  over  the  table, 
listening  with  the  deepest  attention, -her  breath  held,  her  blue 
eyes  sparkling  like  jewels,  and  the  color  mantling  in  her 
cheeks.  She  looked  so  extraordinarily  earnest  and  pretty, 
that  I  stopped  in  a  sort  of  wonder,  and  they  all  observed  her 
at  the  same  time,  for,  as  I  stopped,  they  laughed  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  Em'ly  is  like  me,"  said  Peggotty,  "  and  would  like  to  see 
him." 

Em'ly  was  confused  by  our  all  observing  her,  and  hung 
down  her  head,  and  her  face  was  covered  with  blushes. 
Glancing  up  presently  through  her  stray  curls,  and  seeing 
that  we  were  all  looking  at  her  still  (I  am  sure,  I,  for  one, 
could  have  looked  at  her  for  hours),  she  ran  away,  and  kept 
^way  till  it  was  nearly  bedtime. 


146  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  lay  down  in  the  old  little  bed  in  the  stern  of  the  boat 
and  the  wind  came  moaning  on  across  the  flat  as  it  had  done 
before.  But  I  could  not  help  fancying,  now,  that  it  moaned 
of  those  who  were  gone;  and  instead  of  thinking  that  the  sea 
might  rise  in  the  night  and  float  the  boat  away,  I  thought  of 
the  sea  that  had  risen,  since  I  last  heard  those  sounds,  and 
drowned  my  happy  home.  I  recollect,  as  the  wind  and  water 
began  to  sound  fainter  in  my  ears,  putting  a  short  clause  in 
my  prayers,  petitioning  that  I  might  grow  up  to  marry  little 
Em'ly,  and  so  dropping  lovingly  asleep. 

The  days  passed  pretty  much  as  they  had  passed  before, 
except — it  was  a  great  exception — that  little  Em'ly  and  I 
seldom  wandered  on  the  beach  now.  She  had  tasks  to  learn, 
and  needlework  to  do;  and  was  absent  during  a  great  part 
of  each  day.  But  I  felt  that  we  should  not  have  had  those 
old  wanderings,  even  if  it  had  been  otherwise.  Wild  and  full 
of  childish  whims  as  Em'ly  was,  she  was  more  of  a  little  wo- 
man than  I  had  supposed.  She  seemed  to  have  got  a  great 
distance  away  from  me,  in  little  more  than  a  year.  She  liked 
me,  but  she  laughed  at  me,  and  tormented  me;  and  when  I 
went  to  meet  her,  stole  home  another  way,  and  was  laughing 
at  the  door  when  I  came  back  disappointed.  The  best  times 
were  when  she  sat  quietly  at  work  in  the  doorway,  and  I  sat 
on  the  wooden  step  at  her  feet,  reading  to  her.  It  seems  to 
me,  at  this  hour,  that  I  have  never  seen  such  sunlight  as  on 
those  bright  April  afternoons;  that  I  have  never  seen  such  a 
sunny  little  figure  as  I  used  to  see,  sitting  in  the  doorway  of 
the  old  boat;  that  I  have  never  beheld  such  sky,  such  water, 
such  glorified  ships  sailing  away  into  golden  air. 

On  the  very  first  evening  after  our  arrival,  Mr.  Barkis  ap- 
peared in  an  exceedingly  vacant  and  awkward  condition, 
and  with  a  bundle  of  oranges  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief.  As 
he  made  no  allusion  of  any  kind  to  this  property,  he  was 
supposed  to  have  left  it  behind  him  by  accident  when  he 
went  away;  until  Ham,  running  after  him  to  restore  it,  came 
back  with  the  information  that  it  was  intended  for  Peggotty. 
After  that  occasion  he  appeared  every  evening  at  exactly 
the  same  hour,  and  always  with  a  little  bundle,  to  which  he 
never  alluded,  and  which  he  regularly  put  behind  the  door, 
and  left  there.  These  offerings  of  affection  were  of  a  most 
various  and  eccentric  description.  Among  them  I  remem- 
ber a  double  set  of  pig's  trotters,  a  huge  pincushion,  half  a 
bushel  or  so  of  apples,  a  pair  of  jet  ear-rings,  some  Spani^ 
onions,  a  box  of  dominos,  a  canary  bird  and  cage,  and  a 
leg  of  oickled  oork. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  147 

Mr.  Barkis's  wooing,  as  I  remember  it,  was  altogether  of  a 
peculiar  kind.  He  very  seldom  said  anything;  but  would 
sit  by  the  fire  in  much  the  same  attitude  as  he  sat  in,  ill  his 
cart,  and  stare  heavily  at  Peggotty,  who  was  opposite.  One 
night,  being,  as  I  suppose,  inspired  by  love,  he  made  a  dart 
at  the  bit  of  wax-candle  she  kept  for  her  thread,  and  put  it 
in  his  waistcoat-pocket  and  carried  it  off.  After  that,  his 
great  delight  was  to  produce  it  when  it  was  wanted,  sticking 
to  the  lining  of  his  pocket,  in  a  partially-melted  state,  and 
pocket  it  again  when  it  was  done  with.  He  seemed  to  en- 
joy himself  very  much,  and  not  to  feel  at  all  called  upon  to 
talk.  Even  when  he  took  Peggotty  out  for  a  walk  on  the 
flats,  he  had  no  uneasiness  on  that  head,  I  believe;  content- 
ing himself  with  now  and  then  asking  her  if  she  was  pretty 
comfortable;  and  I  remember  that  sometimes  after  he  was 
gone,  Peggotty  would  throw  her  apron  over  her  face^  and 
laugh  for  half-an-hour.  Indeed,  we  were  all  more  or  less 
amused,  except  that  miserable  Mrs.  Gummidge,  whose  court- 
ship would  appear  to  have  been  of  an  exactly  parallel  na- 
ture, she  was  so  continually  reminded  by  these  transactions 
of  the  old  one. 

At  length,  when  the  term  of  my  visit  was  nearly  expired, 
it  was  given  out  that  Peggotty  and  Mr.  Barkis  were  going  to 
make  a  day's  holiday  together,  and  that  little  Em'ly  and  I 
were  to  accompany  them.  I  had  but  a  broken  sleep  the 
night  before,  in  anticipation  of  the  pleasure  of  a  whole  day 
with  Em'ly.  We  were  all  astir  betimes  in  the  morning;  and 
while  we  were  yet  at  breakfast,  Mr.  Barkis  appeared  in  the 
distance,  driving  a  chaise-cart  towards  the  object  of  his 
affections. 

Peggotty  was  dressed  as  usual,  in  her  neat  and  quiet  mourn- 
ing; but  Mr.  Barkis  bloomed  in  a  new  blue  coat,  of  which  the 
tailor  had  given  him  such  good  measure,  that  the  cuffs  would 
have  rendered  gloves  unnecessary  in  the  coldest  weather, 
while  the  collar  was  so  high  that  it  pushed  his  hair  up  on 
end  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His  bright  buttons,  too,  were 
of  the  largest  size.  Rendered  complete  by  drab  pantaloons 
and  a  buff  waistcoat,  I  thought  Mr.  Barki?  a  phenomenon 
of  respectability. 

When  we  were  all  in  a  bustle  outside  the  door,  I  found 
that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  prepared  with  an  old  shoe,  which 
was  to  be  thrown  after  us  for  luck,  and  which  he  offered  to 
Mrs.  Gummidge  fdr  that  purpose. 


148  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  No.  It  had  better  be  done  by  somebody  else,  Dan'l," 
said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  I'm  a  lone  lorn  creetur'  myself, 
and  everythink  that  reminds  me  of  creetur's  that  ain't  lone 
and  lorn,  goes  contrairy  with  me." 

"Come,  old  gal  !"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  Take  and 
heave  it  !" 

"  No,  Dan'l,"  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge,  whimpering  and 
shaking  her  head.  "  If  I  felt  less,  I  could  do  more.  You 
don't  feel  like  me,  Dan'l;  thinks  don't  go  contrairy  with  you, 
nor  you  with  them;  you  had  better  do  it  yourself." 

But  here  Peggotty,  who  had  been  going  about  from  one 
to  another  in  a  hurried  way,  kissing  everybody,  called  out 
from  the  cart  in  which  we  all  were  by  this  time  (Em'ly  and 
I  on  two  little  chairs,  side  by  side),  that  Mrs.  Gummidge 
must  do  it.  So  Mrs.  Gummidge  did  it;  and,  I  am  sorry  to 
relate,  cast  a  damp  upon  the  festive  character  of  our  depar- 
ture, by  immediately  bursting  inti)  tears,  and  sinking  sub- 
dued into  the  arms  of  Ham,  with  the  declaration  that  she 
knowed  she  was  a  burden,  and  had  better  be  carried  to  the 
House  at  once.  Which  I  really  thought  was  a  sensible  idea, 
that  Ham  might  have  acted  on. 

Away  we  went,  however,  on  our  holiday  excursion;  and 
the  first  thing  we  did  was  to  stop  at  a  church,  where  Mr. 
Barkis  tied  the  horse  to  some  rails,  and  went  in  with  Peg- 
gotty, leaving  little  Em'ly  alone  in  the  chaise.  I  took  that 
occasion  to  put  my  arm  round  Em'ly's  waist,  and  propose 
that  as  I  was  going  away  so  very  soon  now,  we  should  deter- 
mine to  be  very  affectionate  to  one  another,  and  very  happy, 
all  day.  Little  Em'ly  consenting,  and  allowing  me  to  kiss 
her,  I  became  desperate;  informing  her,  I  recollect,  that  I 
never  could  love  another,  and  that  I  was  prepared  to  shed 
the  blood  of  anybody  who  should  aspire  to  her  affections. 

How  merry  little  Em'ly  made  herself  about  it  !  With 
what  a  demure  assumption  of  being  immensely  older  and 
wiser  than  I,  the  fairly  little  woman  said  I  was  "  a  silly  boy;" 
and  then  laughed  so  charmingly,  that  I  forgot  the  pain  of 
being  called  by  that  disparaging  name,  in  the  pleasure  of 
looking  at  her. 

Mr.  Barkis  and  Peggotty  were  a  good  while  in  the  church, 
but  came  out  at  last,  and  then  we  drove  away  into  the 
country.  As  we  were  going  along,  Mr.  Barkis  turned  to  me, 
and  said,  with  a  wink — by  the  by,  I  should  hardly  have 
thought,  before,  that  he  could  wink: 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  149 

"What  name  was  it  as  I  wrote  up  in  the  cart  ?" 

"  Clara  Peggotty,"  I  answered. 

"  What  name  would  it  be  as  I  should  write  up  now,  if 
there  was  a  tilt  here  ?" 

"  Clara  Peggotty,  again  ?"  I  suggested. 

"  Clara  Peggotty  Barkis  !"  he  returned,  and  burst  mto  a 
roar  of  laughter  that  shook  the  chaise. 

In  a  word,  they  were  married,  and  had  gone  into  the 
church  for  no  other  purpose.  Peggotty  was  resolved  that 
it  should  be  quietly  done;  and  the  clerk  had  given  her  away, 
and  there  had  been  no  witnesses  of  the  ceremony.  She 
was  a  little  confused  when  Mr.  Barkis  made  this  abrupt  an- 
nouncement of  their  union,  and  could  not  hug  me  enough 
ki  token  of  her  unimpaired  affection;  but  she  soon  became 
herself  again;  and  said  she  was  very  glad  it  was  over. 

We  drove  to  a  little  inn  in  a  by-road,  where  we  were  ex- 
pected, and  where  we  had  a  very  comfortable  dinner,  and 
passed  the  day  with  great  satisfaction.  If  Peggotty  had  been 
married  every  day  for  the  last  ten  years,  she  could  hardly 
have  been  more  at  her  ease  about  it;  it  made  no  sort  of  dif- 
ference in  her:  she  was  just  the  same  as  ever,  and  went  out 
for  a  stroll  with  little  Em'ly  and  me  before  tea,  while  Mr. 
Barkis  philosophically  smoked  his  pipe,  and  enjoyed  himself, 
I  suppose  with  the  contemplation  of  his  happiness.  If  so,  it 
sharpened  his  appetite;  for  I  distinctly  call  to  mind  that,  al- 
though he  had  eaten  a  good  deal  of  pork  and  greens  at  din- 
ner, and  had  finished  off  with  a  fowl  or  two,  he  was  obliged 
to  have  cold  boiled  bacon  for  tea,  and  disposed  of  a  large 
quantity  without  any  emotion. 

I  have  often  thought,  since,  what  an  odd,  innocent,  out- 
of-the-way  kind  of  wedding  it  must  have  been  !  We  got  in- 
to the  chaise  again  soon  after  dark,  and  drove  cosily  back, 
looking  up  at  the  stars,  and  talking  about  them.  I  was  their 
chief  exponent,  and  opened  Mr.  Barkis's  mind  to  an  amaz- 
ing extent.  I  told  him  all  I  knew,  but  he  would  have  be- 
lieved anything  I  might  have  taken  it  into  my  head  to  im- 
part to  him;  for  he  had  a  profound  veneration  for  my  abili- 
ties, and  informed  his  wife  in  my  hearing,  on  that  very  oc- 
casion, that  I  was  "  ayoungRoeshus  " — by  which  I  think  he 
meant,  prodigy. 

When  Tve  had  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  stars,  or  rather 
when  I  had  exhausted  the  mental  faculties  of  Mr.  Barkis, 
little  Em'ly  and  I  made  a  cloak  of  an  old  wrapper,  and  sat 


I50  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

under  it  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  Ah,  how  I  loved  her  ! 
What  happiness  (I  thought)  if  we  were  married,  and  were 
going  away  anywhere  to  hve  among  the  trees  and  in  the 
fields,  never  growing  older,  never  growing  wiser,  children 
ever,  rambling  hand  in  hand  through  sunshine  and  among 
flowery  meadows,  laying  down  our  heads  on  moss  at  night, 
in  a  sweet  sleep  of  purity  and  peace,  and  buried  by  the  birds 
when  we  were  dead  !  Some  such  picture,  with  no  real  world 
in  it,  bright  with  thelight  of  our  innocence,  and  vague  as  the 
stars  afar  off,  was  in  my  mind  all  the  way.  I  am  glad  to 
think  there  were  two  such  guileless  hearts  at  Peggotty's  mar- 
riage as  little  Em'ly  and  mine.  I  am  glad  to  think  the  Loves 
and  Graces  took  such  airy  forms  in  its  homely  procession. 

Well,  we  came  to  the  old  boat  again  in  good  time  at  night; 
and  there  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barkis  bade  us  Good-by,  and  drove 
away  snugly  to  their  own  home.  I  felt  then,  for  the  first 
time,  that  I  had  lost  Peggotty.  I  should  have  gone  to  bed 
with  a  sore  heart  indeed  under  any  other  roof  but  that  which 
sheltered  little  Em'ly's  head, 

Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham  knew  what  was  in  my  thoughts  as 
well  as  I  did,  and  were  ready  with  some  supper  and  their 
hospitable  faces  to  drive  it  away.  Little  Em'ly  came  and 
sat  beside  me  on  the  locker,  for  the  only  time  in  all  that 
visit;  and  it  was  altogether  a  wonderful  close  to  a  wonder- 
ful day. 

It  was  a  night  tide;  and  soon  after  we  went  to  bed,  Mr. 
Peggotty  and  Ham  went  out  to  fish.  I  felt  very  brave  at  be- 
ing left  alone  in  the  solitary  house,  the  protector  of  Emily 
and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  only  wished  that  a  lion  or  a  ser- 
pent, or  any  ill-disposed  monster,  would  make  an  attack  up- 
on us,  that  I  might  destroy  him,  and  cover  myself  with  glory. 
But  as  nothing  of  the  sort  happened  to  be  walking  about  on 
Yarmouth  flats  that  night,  I  provided  the  best  substitute  I 
could  by  dreaming  of  dragons  until  morning. 

With  morning  came  Peggotty;  who  called  to  me,  as  usual, 
under  my  window  as  if  Mr.  Barkis  the  carrier  had  been  from 
first  to  last  a  dream  too.  After  breakfast  she  took  me  to  her 
own  home,  and  a  beautiful  little  home  it  was.  Of  all  the 
moveables  in  it,  I  must  have  been  most  impressed  by  a  cer- 
tain old  bureau  of  some  dark  wood  in  the  parlor  (the  tile- 
floored  kitchen  was  the  general  sitting-room),  with  a  retreat- 
ing top  which  opened,  let  down,  and  became  a  desk,  within 
which  was  a  large  quarto  edition  of  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs. 
This  precious  volume,  of  which  I  do  not  recollect  one  word, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  151 

I  immediately  discovered  and  immediately  applied  myself  to: 
and  I  never  visited  the  house  afterwards,  but  I  kneeled  on  a 
chair,  opened  the  casket  where  this  gem  was  enshrined, 
spread  my  arms  over  the  desk,  and  fell  to  devouring  the  book 
afresh.  I  was  chiefly  edified,  I  am  afraid,  by  the  pictures, 
which  w^ere  numerous,  and  represented  all  kinds  of  dismal 
horrors;  but  the  Martyrs  and  Peggotty's  house  have  been 
inseparable  in  my  mind  ever  since,  and  are  now. 

I  took  leave  of  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge,  and  little  Em'ly,  that  day;  and  passed  the  night  at 
Peggotty's,  in  a  little  room  in  the  roof  (with  the  crocodile- 
book  on  a  shelf  by  the  bed's  head)  which  was  always  to  be 
mine,  Peggotty  said,  and  should  always  be  kept  for  me  in 
exactly  the  same  state. 

"  Young  or  old,  Davy  dear,  as  long  as  I  am  alive  and  have 
this  house  over  my  head,"  said  Peggotty,  "  you  shall  find  it 
as  if  I  expected  you  here  directly  every  minute.  1  shall 
keep  it  every  day,  as  I  used  to  keep  your  old  little  room, 
my  darling  ;  and  if  you  was  to  go  to  China,  you  might  think 
of  it  as  being  kept  just  the  same,  all  the  time  you  were  away." 

I  felt  the  truth  and  constancy  of  my  dear  old  nurse,  with 
all  my  heart,  and  thanked  her  as  well  as  I  could.  That  was 
not  very  well,  for  she  spoke  to  me  thus,  with  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  in  the  morning,  and  I  was  going  home  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  I  went  home  in  the  morning,  with  herself  and  Mr. 
Barkis  in  the  cart.  They  left  me  at  the  gate,  not  easily  or 
lightly  ;  and  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  me  to  see  the  cart  go  on, 
taking  Peggotty  away,  and  leaving  me  under  the  old  elm 
trees  looking  at  the  house,  in  which  there  was  no  face  to  look 
on  mine  with  love  or  liking  any  more. 

And  now  I  fell  into  a  state  of  neglect,  which  I  cannot  look 
back  upon  without  compassion.  I  fell  at  once  into  a  soli- 
tary condition, — apart  from  all  friendly  notice,  apart  from 
the  society  of  all  other  boys  of  my  own  age,  apart  from  all 
companionship  but  my  own  spiritless  thoughts, — which  seems 
to  cast  its  gloom  upon  this  paper  as  I  write. 

What  would  I  have  given  to  have  been  sent  to  the  hardest 
school  that  ever  was  kept ! — to  have  been  taught  something, 
anyhow,  anywhere  !  No  such  hope  dawned  upon  me.  They 
disliked  me  ;  and  they  sullenly,  sternly,  steadily  overlooked 
me.  1  think  Mr.  Murdstone's  means  were  straitened  at 
about  this  time  ;  but  it  is  little  to  the  purpose.  He  could 
not  bear  me  j  and  in  putting  me  from  him  he  tried,  as  I  be- 


152  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

lieve,  to  put  away  the  notion  that  I  had  any  claim  upon  him 
— and  succeeded. 

I  was  not  actively  ill-used.  I  was  not  beaten  or  starved  ; 
but  the  wrong  that  was  done  to  me  had  no  intervals  of  re- 
lenting, and  was  done  in  a  systematic,  passionless  manner. 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  I  was 
coldly  neglected.  I  wonder  sometimes,  when  I  think  of  it, 
what  they  would  have  done  if  I  had  been  taken  with  an  ill- 
ness ;  whether  I  should  have  lain  down  in  my  lonely  room, 
and  languished  through  it  in  my  usual  solitary  way,  or  whether 
anybody  would  have  helped  me  out. 

When  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  at  home,  I  took  my 
meals  with  them ;  in  their  absence,  I  ate  and  drank  by  my- 
self. At  all  times  I  lounged  about  the  house  and  neighbor- 
hood quite  disregarded,  except  that  they  were  jealous  of  my 
making  any  friends  :  thinking,  perhaps,  that,  if  I  did,  I  might 
complain  to  some  one.  For  this  reason,  though  Mr.  Chillip 
often  asked  me  to  go  and  see  him  (he  was  a  widower^  having, 
some  years  before  that,  lost  a  little  light-haired  wife,  whom  1 
can  just  remember  connecting  in  my  own  thoughts  with  a 
pale  tortoise-shell  cat),  it  was  but  seldom  that  I  enjoyed  the 
happiness  of  passing  an  afternoon  in  his  closet  of  a  surg- 
ery ;  reading  some  book  that  was  new  to  me,  with  the  smell  of 
the  whole  pharmacopoeia  coming  up  my  nose,  or  pounding 
something  in  a  mortar  under  his  mild  directions. 

For  the  same  reason,  added  no  doubt  to  the  old  dislike  of 
her,  I  was  seldom  allowed  to  visit  Peggotty.  Faithful  to  her 
promise,  she  either  came  to  see  me,  or  met  me  somewhere  near, 
once  every  week,  and  never  empty-handed  ;  but  many  and  bit- 
ter were  the  disappointments  I  had,  in  being  refused  permis- 
sion to  pay  a  visit  to  her  at  her  house.  Some  few  times,  how- 
ever, at  long  intervals,  I  was  allowed  to  go  there  ;  and  then  I 
found  out  that  Mr.  Barkis  was  something  of  a  miser,  or  as  Peg- 
gotty dutifully  expressed  it,  was  "  a  little  near,"  and  kept  a 
heap  of  money  in  a  box  under  his  bed,  which  he  pretended 
was  only  full  of  coats  and  trousers.  In  this  coffer,  his  riches 
hid  themselves  with  such  a  tenacious  modesty,  that  the  small- 
est installments  could  only  be  tempted  out  by  artifice  ;  so  that 
Peggotty  had  to  prepare  a  long  and  elaborate  scheme,  a  very 
Gunpowder  Plot,  for  every  Saturday's  expenses. 

All  this  time  I  was  so  conscious  of  the  waste  of  any  promise 
I  had  given,  and  of  my  being  utterly  neglected,  that  I  should 
have  been  perfectly  miserable,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  for  the 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  153 

old  books.  They  were  my  only  comfort  ;  and  I  was  as  true 
to  them  as  they  were  to  me,  and  read  them  over  and  over  I 
don't  know  how  many  times  more. 

I  now  approach  the  period  of  my  life,  which  I  can  never 
lose  the  remembrance  of,  while  I  remember  anything;  and 
the  recollection  of  which  has  often,  without  my  invocation, 
come  before  me  like  a  ghost,  and  haunted  happier  times. 

I  had  been  out,  one  day,  loitering  somewhere,  in  the  list- 
less, meditative  manner  that  my  way  of  life  engendered, 
when  turning  the  corner  of  a  lane  near  our  house,  I  came 
upon  Mr,  Murdstone  walking  with  a  gentleman.  I  was  con- 
fused, and  was  going  by  them,  when  the  gentleman  cried: 

''What!  Brooks!" 

"  No,  sir,  David  Copperfield,"  I  said. 

"  Don't  tell  me.  You  are  Brooks,"  said  the  gentleman. 
*'  You  are  Brooks  of  Sheffield.     That's  your  name." 

At  these  words,  I  observed  the  gentleman  more  atten- 
tively. His  laugh  coming  to  my  remembrance  too,  I  knew 
him  to  be  Mr.  Quinion,  whom  I  had  gone  over  to  Lowestoft 
with  Mr.  Murdstone  to  see,  before — it  is  no  matter — I  need 
not  recall  when. 

**  And  how  do  you  get  on,  and  where  are  you  being  edu- 
cated. Brooks  ?"  said  Mr.  Quinion. 

He  had  put  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  turned  me 
about,  to  walk  with  them.  I  did  not  know  what  to  reply, 
and  glanced  dubiously  at  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"  He  is  at  home  at  present,"  said  the  latter.  *'  He  is  not 
being  educated  anywhere.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
him.     He  is  a  difficult  subject." 

That  old,  double  look  was  on  me  for  a  moment;  and  then 
his  eye  darkened  with  a  frown,  as  it  turned,  in  its  aversion, 
elsewhere. 

**  Humph  !"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  looking  at  us  both,  I  thought, 
"  Fine  weather  !" 

Silence  ensued,  and  I  was  considering  how  I  could  best  dis- 
engage my  shoulder  from  his  hand,  and  go  away,  when  he  said: 

"  I  suppose  you  are  a  pretty  sharp  fellow  still?  Eh,  Brooks?" 

"  Aye  !  He  is  sharp  enough,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  impa- 
tiently, "  You  had  better  let  him  go.  He  will  not  thank  you 
for  troubling  him." 

On  this  hint,  Mr.  Quinion  released  me,  and  I  made  the 
best  of  my  way  home.  Looking  back  as  I  turned  into  the 
front  garden,  I  saw    Mr.    Murdstone    leaning   against   the 


154  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

wicket  of  the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Quinion  talking  to  him. 
They  were  both  looking  after  me,  and  I  felt  that  they  were 
speaking  of  me. 

Mr.  Quinion  lay  at  our  house  that  night.  After  breakfast, 
the  next  morning,  I  had  put  my  chair  away,  and  was  going 
out  of  the  room,  when  Mr.  Murdstone  called  me  back.  He 
then  gravely  repaired  to  another  table,  where  his  sister  sat 
herself  at  her  desk.  Mr.  Quinion,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  stood  looking  out  of  the  window;  and  I  stood  look- 
ing at  them  all. 

"  David,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  "  to  the  young,  this  is  a 
world  for  action;  not  for  moping  and  droning  in." 

— "  As  you  do,"  added  his  sister. 

"  Jane  Murdstone,  leave  it  to  me,  if  you  please.  I  say, 
David,  to  the  young,  this  is  a  world  for  actio-n,  and  not  for 
moping  and  droning  in.  It  is  especially  so  for  a  young 
boy  of  your  disposition,  which  requires  a  great  deal 
of  correcting;  and  to  which  no  greater  service  can  be  done 
than  to  force  it  to  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  working  world, 
and  to  bend  it  and  break  it." 

"  For  stubbornness  won't  do  here,"  said  his  sister.  "  What 
it  wants,  is  to  be  crushed.  And  crushed  it  must  be.  Shall 
be,    too  !" 

He  gave  her  a  look,  half  in  remonstrance,  half  in  approval, 
and  went  on: 

"  I  suppose  you  know,  David,  that  I  am  not  rich.  At 
any  rate,  you  know  it  now.  You  have  received  some  con- 
siderable education  already.  Education  is  costly;  and  even 
if  it  were  not,  and  I  could  afford  it,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it 
would  not  be  at  all  advantageous  to  you  to  be  kept  at  school. 
What  is  before  you,  is  a  fight  with  the  world;  and  the  sooner 
you  begin  it,  the  better." 

I  think  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  already  begun  it,  in 
my  poor  way:  but  it  occurs  to  me  now,  whether  or  no. 

"  You  have  heard  *  the  counting-house'  mentioned  some- 
times," said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"  The  counting-house,  sir  ?"  I  repeated. 

"  Of  Murdstone  and  Grinby,  in  the  wine  trade,"  he  replied. 

I  suppose  I  looked  uncertain,  for  he  went  on  hastily: 
"  You  have  heard  the  '  counting-house'  mentioned,  or  the 
business,  or  the  cellars,  or  the  wharf,  or  something  about  it  " 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  the  business  mentioned,  sir,"  I  said, 
remembering  what  I  vaguely  knew  of  his  and  his  sister's  re- 
sources.    "But  I  don't  know  when." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  155 

"  It  does  not  matter  when,"  he  returned.  "  Mr.  Quinion 
manages  that  business." 

I  glanced  at  the  latter  deferentially  as  he  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Mr.  Quinion  suggests  that  it  gives  employment  to  some 
other  boys,  and  that  he  sees  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't,  on 
the  same  terms,  give  employment  to  you." 

"  He  having,"  Mr.  Quinion  observed  in  a  low  voice,  and 
half  turning  round,  "  no  other  prospect,  Murdstone." 

Mr.  Murdstone,  with  an  impatient,  even  an  angry  gesture, 
resumed,  without  noticing  what  he  had  said: 

"  Those  terms  are,  that  you  will  earn  enough  for  yourself 
to  provide  for  your  eating  and  drinking,  and  pocket-money. 
Your  lodging  (which  I  have  arranged  for)  will  be  paid  by  me. 
So  will  your  washing — " 

— "  Which  will  be  kept  down  to  my  estimate,"  said  his 
sister. 

"  Your  clothes  will  be  looked  after  for  you,  too,"  said  Mr. 
Murdstone;  "  as  you  will  not  be  able,  yet  awhile,  to  get  them 
for  yourself.  So  you  are  now  going  to  London,  David,  with 
Mr.  Quinion,  to  begin  the  world  on  your  own  account." 

"  In  short,  you  are  provided  for,"  observed  his  sister;  "  and 
will  please  to  do  your  duty." 

Though  I  quite  understood  that  the  purpose  of  this  an- 
nouncement was  to  get  rid  of  me,  I  have  no  distinct  remem- 
brance whether  it  pleased  or  frightened  me.  My  impression 
is,  that  I  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  about  it,  and,  oscillat- 
ing between  the  two  points,  touched  neither.  Nor  had  I 
much  time  for  the  clearing  of  my  thoughts,  as  Mr.  Quinion 
was  to  go  upon  the  morrow. 

Behold  me,  on  the  morrow,  in  a  much-worn  little  white 
hat,  with  a  black  crape  round  it  for  my  mother,  a  black 
jacket,  and  a  pair  of  hard,  stiff  corduroy  trousers — which 
Miss  Murdstone  considered  the  best  armor  for  the  legs  in 
that  fight  with  the  world  which  was  now  to  come  off;  behold 
me  so  attired,  and  with  my  little  worldly  all  before  me  in  a 
small  trunk,  sitting,  a  lone  lorn  child  (as  Mrs.  Gummidge 
might  have  said),  in  the  post-chaise  that  was  carrying  Mr. 
Quinion  to  the  London  coach  at  Yarmouth  !  See,  how  our 
house  and  church  are  lessening  in  the  distance;  how  the  grave 
beneath  the  tree  is  blotted  out  by  intervening  objects;  how 
the  spire  points  upward  from  my  old  playground  no  more, 
and  the  sky  is  empty. 


IS6  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER    XI. 

I  BEGIN  LIFE  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT,  AND  DON't  LIKE  IT. 

I  KNOW  enough  of  the  world  now,  to  have  almost  lost  the 
capacity  of  being  much  surprised  by  anything;  but  it  is  mat- 
ter of  some  surprise  to  me,  even  now,  that  I  can  have  been 
so  easily  thrown  away  at  such  an  age.  A  child  of  excellent 
abilities,  and  with  strong  powers  of  observation,  quick,  eager, 
delicate,  and  soon  hurt  bodily  or  mentally,  it  seems  wonder- 
ful to  me  that  nobody  should  have  made  any  sign  in  my  be- 
half. But  none  was  made;  and  I  became,  at  ten  years  old, 
a  little  laboring  hind  in  the  service  of  Murdstone  and  Grinby. 

Murdstone  and  Grinby's  warehouse  was  at  the  water  side. 
It  was  down  in  Blackfriars.  Modern  improvements  have  al- 
tered the  place;  but  it  was  the  last  house  at  the  bottom  of  a 
narrow  street,  curving  down  hill  to  the  river,  with  some  stairs 
at  the  end,  where  people  took  boat.  It  was  a  crazy  old  house 
with  a  wharf  of  its  own,  abutting  on  the  water  when  the  tide 
was  in,  and  on  the  mud  when  the  tide  was  out,  and  literally 
overrun  with  rats.  Its  paneled  rooms,  discolored  with  the 
dirt  and  smoke  of  a  hundred  years,  I  dare  say;  its  decaying 
floors  and  staircase;  the  squeaking  and  scuffling  of  the  old 
gray  rats  down  in  the  cellars;  and  the  dirt  and  rottenness  of 
the  place;  are  things,  not  of  many  years  ago,  in  my  mind, 
but  of  the  present  instant.  They  are  all  before  me,  just  as 
they  were  in  the  evil  hour  when  I  went  among  them  for  the 
first  time,  with  my  trembling  hand  in  Mr.  Quinion's. 

Murdstone  and  Grinby's  trade  was  among  a  good  many 
kinds  of  people,  but  an  important  branch  of  it  was  the  supply 
of  wines  and  spirits  to  certain  packet  ships.  I  forget  now 
where  they  chiefly  went,  but  I  think  there  were  some  among 
them  that  made  voyages  both  to  the  East  and  West  Indies. 
I  know  that  a  great  many  empty  bottles  were  one  of  the  con- 
sequences of  this  traffic  and  that  certain  men  and  boys  were 
employed  to  examine  them  against  the  light,  and  reject  those 
that  were  flawed,  and  to  rinse  and  wash  them.  When  the 
empty  bottles  ran  short,  there  were  labels  to  be  pasted  on 
full  ones,  or  corks  to  be  fitted  to  them,  or  seals  to  be  put  up- 
on the  corks,  or  finished  bottles  to  be  packed  in  casks.  All 
this  work  was  my  work,  and  of  the  boys  employed  upon  it  I 
was  one. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  157 

There  were  three  or  four  of  us,  counting  me.  My  work- 
ing place  was  established  in  a  corner  of  the  warehouse, 
where  Mr.  Quinion  could  see  me,  when  he  chose  to  stand  up 
on  the  bottom  rail  of  his  stool  in  the  counting-house,  and 
look  at  me  through  a  window  above  the  desk.  Hither,  on 
the  first  morning  of  my  so  auspiciously  beginning  life  on  my 
own  account,  the  oldest  of  the  regular  boys  was  summoned 
to  show  me  my  business.  His  name  was  Mick  Walker,  and 
he  wore  a  ragged  apron  and  a  paper  cap.  He  informed  me 
that  his  father  was  a  bargeman,  and  walked,  in  a  black  velvet 
head-dress,  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  show.  He  also  informed 
me  that  our  principal  associate  would  be  another  boy  whom 
he  introduced  by  the — to  me — extraordinary  name  of  Mealy 
Potatoes.  I  discovered,  however,  that  this  youth  had  not 
been  christened  by  that  name,  but  that  it  had  been  bestowed 
upon  him  in  the  warehouse,  on  account  of  his  complexion, 
which  was  pale  or  mealy.  Mealy's  father  was  a  waterman, 
who  had  the  additional  distinction  of  being  a  fireman,  and 
was  engaged  as  such  at  one  of  the  large  theatres;  where  some 
y^ung  relation  of  Mealy's — I  think  his  little  sister — did  Imps 
in  the  Pantomimes. 

No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony  of  my  soul  as  I 
sunk  into  this  companionship;  compared  these  henceforth 
every-day  associates  with  those  of  my  happier  childhood — 
not  to  say  with  Steerforth,  Traddles,  and  the  rest  of  those 
boys:  and  felt  my  hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and 
distinguished  man  crushed  in  my  bosom.  The  deep  re- 
membrance of  the  sense  I  had,  of  being  utterly  without  hope 
now;  of  the  shame  I  felt  in  my  position;  of  the  misery  it 
was  to  my  young  heart  to  believe  that  day  by  day  what  I 
had  learned,  and  thought,  and  delighted  in,  and  raised  my 
fancy  and  my  emulation  up  by,  would  pass  away  from  me, 
little  by  little,  never  to  be  brought  back  any  more;  cannot  be 
written.  As  often  as  Mick  Walker  went  away  in  the  course 
of  that  forenoon,  I  mingled  my  tears  with  the  water  in  which 
I  was  washing  the  bottles;  and  sobbed  as  if  there  were  a 
flaw  in  my  own  breast,  and  it  were  in  danger  of  bursting. 

The  counting-house  clock  was  at  half-past  twelve,  and 
there  was  general  preparation  for  going  to  dinner,  when  Mr. 
Quinion  tapped  at  the  counting-house  window,  and  beckoned 
to  me  to  go  in.  I  went  in,  and  found  there  a  stoutish,  mid- 
dle-aged person,  in  a  brown  surtout  and  black  tights  and 
shoes,  with  no  more  hair  upon  his  head  (which  was  a  large 


iS8  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

one,  and  very  shining)  than  there  is  upon  an  egg,  and  with 
a  very  extensive  face,  which  he  turned  full  upon  me.  His 
clothes  were  shabby,  but  he  had  an  imposing  shirt-collar  on. 
He  carried  a  jaunty  sort  of  a  stick,  with  a  large  pair  of  rusty 
tassels  to  it;  and  a  quizzing-glass  hung  outside  his  coat, — 
for  ornament,  I  afterwards  found,  as  he  very  seldom  looked 
through  it,  and  couldn't  see  anything  when  he  did. 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  in  allusion  to  myself,  "  is  he." 

'^  This,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  certain  condescending 
roll  in  his  voice,  and  a  certain  indescribable  air  of  doing 
something  genteel,  which  impressed  me  very  much,  *'  is  Master 
Copperfield.     I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir  ?" 

I  said  I  was  very  well,  and  hoped  ^he  was.  I  was  suffi- 
ciently ill  at  ease.  Heaven  knows;  but  it  was  not  in  my 
nature  to  complain  much  at  that  time  of  my  life,  so  I  said  I 
was  very  well,  and  hoped  he  was. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  "  thank  Heaven,  quite  well.  I 
have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  which  he 
mentions  that  he  would  desire  me  to  receive  into  an  apart- 
ment in  the  rear  of  my  house,  which  is  at  present  unoccupied 
— and  is,  in  short,  to  be  let  as  a — in  short,"said  the  stranger, 
with  a  smile  and  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "  as  a  bed-room — 
the  young  beginner  whom  I  have  now  the  pleasure  to — " 
and  the  stranger  waved  his  hand,  and  settled  his  chin  in  his 
shirt  collar. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  Mr.  Quinion  to  me. 
.   "  Ahem  !"  said  the  stranger,  "  that  is  my  name." 

"  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  "  is  known  to  Mr. 
Murdstone.  He  takes  orders  for  us  on  commission,  when  he 
can  get  any.  He  has  been  written  to  by  Mr.  Murdstone,  on  the 
subject  of  your  lodgings,  and  he  will  receive  you  as  a  lodger." 

"  My  address,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  is  Windsor  Terrace, 
City  Road.  I — in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  same 
genteel  air  and  in  another  burst  of  confidence — "  I  Hve  there." 

I  made  him  a  bow. 

"  Under  the  impression,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  that  your 
peregrinations  in  this  metropolis  have  not  yet  been  exten- 
sive, and  that  you  might  have  some  difficulty  in  penetrating 
the  arcana  of  the  Modern  Babylon  in  the  direction  of  the 
City  Road— in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  another  burst 
of  confidence,  "that  you  might  lose  yourself — I  shall  be 
happy  to  call  this  evening,  and  install  you  in  the  knowledge 
of  the  nearest  way." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  159 

I  thanked  him  with  all  my  heart,  for  it  was  friendly  in  him 
to  offer  to  take  that  trouble. 

''  At  what  hour,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  ''  shall  I — " 

"  At  about  eight,"  said  Mr,  Quinion. 

"At  about  eight,"  said  Mr.  Micawber.  "I  beg  to  wish 
you  good  day,  Mr.  Quinion.     I  will  intrude  no  longer." 

So  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  with  his  cane  under 
his  arm  :  very  upright,  and  humming  a  tune  when  he  was 
clear  of  the  counting-house. 

Mr.  Quinion  then  formally  engaged  me  to  be  as  useful  as 
I  could  in  the  warehouse  of  Murdstone  and  Grinby,  at  a 
salary,  I  think,  of  six  shillings  a  week.  I  am  not  clear 
whether  it  was  six  or  seven.  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  from 
my  uncertainty  on  this  head,  that  it  was  six  at  first  and  seven 
afterwards.  He  paid  me  a  week  down  (from  his  own  pocket, 
I  believe),  and  I  gave  Mealy  sixpence  out  of  it  to  get  my 
trunk  carried  to  Windsor  Terrace  at  night :  it  being  too 
heavy  for  my  strength,  small  as  it  was.  I  paid  sixpence 
more  for  my  dinner,  which  was  a  meat  pie  and  a  turn  at  a 
neighboring  pump  ;  and  passed  the  hour  which  was  allowed 
for  that  meal,  in  walking  about  the  streets. 

At  the  appointed  time  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Micawber  reap- 
peared. I  washed  my  hands  and  face,  to  do  the  greater 
honor  to  his  gentility,  and  we  walked  to  our  house,  as  I 
suppose  I  must  now  call  it,  together  ;  Mr.  Micawber  ini- 
pressing  the  names  of  streets,  and  the  shapes  of  corner 
houses  upon  me,  as  we  went  along,  that  I  might  find  my 
way  back  easily  in  the  morning. 

Arrived  at  his  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  (which  I  noticed 
was  shabby,  like  himself,  but  also,  like  himself,  made  all  the 
show  it  could),  he  presented  me  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  a  thin 
and  faded  lady,  not  at  all  young,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
parlor  (the  first  floor  was  altogether  unfurnished,  and  the 
blinds  were  kept  down  to  delude  the  neighbors),  with  a  baby 
at  her  breast.  This  baby  was  one  of  twins  ;  and  I  may  re- 
mark here  that  I  hardly  ever,  in  all  my  experience  of  the 
family,  saw  both  the  twins  detached  from  Mrs.  Micawber  at 
the  same  time.     One  of  them  was  always  taking  refreshment. 

There  were  two  other  children  :  Master  Micawber,  aged 
about  four,  and  Miss  Micawber,  aged  about  three.  These, 
and  a  dark-complexioned  young  woman,  with  a  habit  of 
snorting,  who  was  servant  to  the  family,  and  informed  me, 
before  half-an-hour  had   expired,  that  she  was  "a  Orfling," 


i6o  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

and  came  from  St.  Luke's  workhouse  in  the  neighborhood, 
completed  the  establishment.  My  room  was  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  at  the  back:  a  close  chamber,  stenciled  all  over 
with  an  ornament  which  my  young  imagination  represented 
as  a  blue  muffin,  and  very  scantily  furnished. 

"  I  never  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  when  she  came 
up,  twin  and  all,  to  show  me  the  apartment,  and  sat  down 
to  take  breath,  ''  before  I  was  married,  when  1  lived  with 
papa  and  mamma,  that  I  should  ever  find  it  necessary  to  take 
a  lodger.  But  Mr.  Micawber  being  in  difficulties,  all  con- 
siderations of  private  feeling  must  give  way." 

I  said:  *'  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  are  almost  overwhelming  just 
at  present,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber;  "  and  whether  it  is  pos- 
sible to  bring  him  through  them,  I  don't  know.  When  I 
lived  at  home  with  papa  and  mamma,  I  really  should  have 
hardly  understood  what  the  word  meant,  in  the  sense  in 
which  I  now  employ  it,  but  experientia  does  it — as  papa  used 
to  say." 

I  cannot  satisfy  myself  whether  she  told  me  that  Mr. 
Micawber  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Marines,  or  whether  I 
have  imagined  it.  I  only  know  that  I  believe  to  this  hour 
that  he  was  in  the  Marines  once  upon  a  time,  without  know- 
ing why.  He  was  a  sort  of  town  traveler  for  a  number  of 
miscellaneous  houses,  now;  but  made  little  or  nothing  of  it, 
I  am  afraid. 

**  If  Mr.  Micawber's  creditors  7£////«^/ give  him  time,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  they  must  take  the  consequences;  and  the 
sooner  they  bring  it  to  an  issue  the  better.  Blood  cannot 
be  obtained  from  a  stone,  neither  can  anything  on  account 
be  obtained  at  present  (not  to  mention  law  expenses)  from 
Mr.  Micawber." 

I  never  can  quite  understand  whether  my  precocious  self- 
dependence  confused  Mrs.  Micawber  in  reference  to  my  age, 
or  whether  she  was  so  full  of  the  subject  that  she  would  have 
talked  about  it  to  the  very  twins  if  there  had  been  nobody 
else  to  communicate  with,  but  this  was  the  strain  in  which  she 
began,  and  she  went  on  accordingly  all  the  time  I  knew  her. 

Poor  Mrs.  Micawber  !  She  said  she  had  tried  to  exert 
herself;  and  so,  I  have  no  doubt,  she  had.  The  centre  of 
the  street-door  was  perfectly  covered  with  a  great  brass- 
plate,  on  which  was  engraved  "  Mrs.  Micawber's  Boarding 
Establishment  for  Young  Ladies;"  but  I  never  found  that 


MR,    MICAWBER    IMPRESSING    THE     NAMES   OF   STREETS   AND   THE   IH/.Pr?.  OF  XTORy.ER   KOUOE*}  UPON_Ma, 
i   AS   WE   WENT  ALONG,   THAT   I   MIGHT   FIND   MY   WAY   BAC'I^ ,  £A]Rii^   IN   VWE_MOWf^J>^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  i6i 

any  young  lady  had  ever  been  to  school  there;  or  that  any 
young  lady  ever  came,  or  proposed  to  come:  or  that  the 
least  preparation  was  ever  made  to  receive  any  young  lady. 
The  only  visitors  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of,  were  creditors. 
They  used  to  come  at  all  hours,  and  some  of  them  were  quite 
ferocious.  One  dirty-faced  man,  I  think  he  was  a  bootmaker, 
used  to  edge  himself  into  the  passage  as  early  as  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  call  up  the  stairs  to  Mr.  Micawber — 
"  Come  !  You  ain't  out  yet,  you  know.  Pay  us,  will  you  ? 
Don't  hide,  you  know;  that's  mean.  I  wouldn't  be  mean  if 
I  was  you.  Pay  us,  will  you  ?  You  just  pay  us,  d'ye  hear  ? 
Come  !"  Receiving  no  answer  to  these  taunts,  he  would 
mount  in  his  wrath  to  the  words  "  swindlers  "  and  "  robbers;" 
and  these  being  ineffectual  too,  would  sometimes  go  to  the 
extremity  of  crossing  the  street,  and  roaring  up  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  second  floor,  where  he  knew  Mr.  Micawber  was. 
At  these  times,  Mr.  Micawber  would  be  transported  with 
grief  and  mortification,  even  to  the  length  (as  I  was  once 
made  aware  by  a  scream  from  his  wife)  of  making  motions 
at  himself  with  a  razor;  but  within  half  an  hour  afterwards, 
he  would  polish  up  his  shoes  with  extraordinary  pains,  and 
go  out,  humming  a  tune  with  a  greater  air  of  gentility  than 
ever.  Mrs.  Micawber  was  quite  as  elastic.  I  have  known 
her  to  be  thrown  into  fainting  fits  by  the  king's  taxes  at  three 
o'clock,  and  to  eat  lamb  chops,  breaded,  and  drink  warm  ale 
(paid  for  with  two  teaspoons  that  had  gone  to  the  pawn- 
broker's) at  four.  On  one  occasion,  when  an  execution  had 
just  been  put  in,  coming  home  through  some  chance  as  early 
as  six  o'clock,  I  saw  her  lying  (of  course  with  a  twin)  under 
the  grate  in  a  swoon,  with  her  hair  all  torn  about  her  face; 
but  I  never  knew  her  more  cheerful  than  she  was,  that  very 
same  night,  over  a  veal-cutlet  before  the  kitchen  fire,  telling 
me  stories  about  her  papa  and  mamma,  and  the  company  they 
used  to  keep. 

In  this  house,  and  with  this  family,  I  passed  my  leisure  time. 
My  own  exclusive  breakfast  of  a  penny  loaf  and  a  penny 
worth  of  milk,  I  provided  myself.  I  kept  another  small 
loaf,  and  a  modicum  of  cheese,  on  a  particular  shelf  of  a 
particular  cupboard,  to  make  my  supper  on  when  I  came 
back  at  night.  This  made  a  hole  in  the  six  or  seven  shillings, 
I  know  well;  and  I  was  out  at  the  warehouse  all  day,  and 
had  to  support  myself  on  that  money  all  the  week.  From 
Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night,  I  had  no  advice,  no 


i62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

counsel,  no  encouragement,  no  consolation,  no  assistance, 
no  support,  of  any  kind,  from  any  one,  that  I  can  call  to 
mind,  as  I  hope  to  go  to  heaven  ! 

I  was  so  young  and  childish,  and  so  little  qualified — how 
could  I  do  otherwise  ? — to  undertake  the  whole  charge  of 
my  own  existence,  that  often  in  going  to  Murdstone  and 
Grinby's,  of  a  morning,  I  could  not  resist  the  stale  pastry 
put  out  for  sale  at  half-price  at  the  pastry  cook's  doors,  and 
spent  in  that,  the  money  I  should  have  kept  for  my  dinner. 
Then,  I  went  without  my  dinner,  or  bought  a  roll  or  a  slice 
of  pudding.  I  remember  two  pudding-shops,  between  which 
I  was  divided,  according  to  my  finances.  One  was  in  a 
court  close  to  St.  Martin's  Church — 'at  the  back  of  the 
church — which  is  now  removed  altogether.  The  pudding 
at  that  shop  was  made  of  currants,  and  was  rather  a  special 
pudding,  but  was  dear,  twopenny-worth  not  being  larger 
than  a  pennyworth  of  more  ordinary  pudding.  A  good  shop 
for  the  latter  was  in  the  Strand — somewhere  in  that  part 
which  has  been  rebuilt  since.  It  was  a  stout  pale  pudding, 
heavy  and  flabby,  and  with  great  flat  raisins  in  it,  stuck  in 
whole  at  wide  distances  apart.  It  came  up  hot  at  about  my 
time  every  day,  and  many  a  day  did  I  dine  off  it.  When  I 
dined  regularly  and  handsomely,  I  had  a  saveloy  and  a 
penny-loaf,  or  a  fourpenny  plate  of  red  beef  from  a  cook's 
shop;  or  a  plate  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  glass  of  beer, 
from  a  miserable  old  public-house  opposite  our  place  of 
business,  called  the  Lion,  or  the  Lion  and  something  else 
that  I  have  forgotten.  Once,  I  remember,  carrying  my  own 
bread  (which  I  had  brought  from  home  in  the  morning), 
under  my  arm,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  paper,  like  a  book, 
and  going  to  a  famous  alamode  beef-house  near  Drury-Lane, 
and  ordering  a  "  small  plate"  of  that  delicacy  to  eat  with  it. 
What  the  waiter  thought  of  such  a  strange  little  apparition 
coming  in  all  alone,  I  'don't  know;  but  I  can  see  him  now, 
staring  at  me  as  I  ate  my  dinner,  and  bringing  up  the  other 
waiter  to  look.  I  gave  him  a  halfpenny  for  himself,  and  I 
wish  he  hadn't  taken  it. 

We  had  half-an-hour,  I  think,  for  tea.  '  When  I  had  money 
enough,  I  used  to  get  half-a-pint  of  ready-made  coffee  and  a 
slice  of  bread  and  butter.  When  I  had  none,  I  used  to  look 
at  a  venison-shop  in  Fleet-street;  or  I  have  strolled,  at  such 
a  time,  as  far  as  Co  vent  Garden  Market,  and  stared  at  the 
pine-apples.     I  was  fond  of  wandering  about  the  Adelphi, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  163 

because  it  was  a  mysterious  place,  with  those  vjark  arches.  I 
see  myself  emerging  one  evening  from  some  o*  these  arches, 
on  a  little  public-house  close  to  the  river,  with  an  open  space 
before  it,  where  some  coal-heavers  were  dancing;  to  look  at 
whom,  I  sat  down  upon  a'  bench.  I  wonder  what  they 
thought  of  me  ! 

I  was  such  a  child,  and  so  little,  that  frequently  when  I 
went  into  the  bar  of  a  strange  public-house  for  a  glass  of 
ale  or  porter,  to  moisten  what  I  had  had  for  dinner,  they 
were  afraid  to  give  it  to  me.  I  remember  one  hot  evening 
I  went  into  the  bar  of  a  public-house,  and  said  to  the  landlord: 

"  What  is  your  best — your  very  best — ale  a  glass  ?"  For  it 
was  a  special  occasion.  I  don't  know  what.  It  may  have 
been  my  birth-day. 

"  Twopence-halfpenny,'*  says  the  landlord,  "  is  the  price 
of  the  Genuine  Stunning  ale." 

"  Then,"  says  I,  producing  the  money,  "  just  draw  me  a 
glass  of  the  Genuine  Stunning,  if  you  please,  with  a  good 
head  to  it." 

The  landlord  looked  at  me  in  return  over  the  bar,  from 
head  to  foot,  with  a  strange  smile  on  his  face;  and  instead 
of  drawing  the  beer,  looked  round  the  screen,  and  said  some- 
thing to  his  wife.  She  came  out  from  behind,  with  her 
work  in  her  hand,  and  joined  him  in  surveying  me.  Here 
we  stand,  all  three,  before  me  now.  The  landlord  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  leaning  against  the  bar  window-frame,  his  wife 
looking  over  the  little  half-door:  and  I,  in  some  confusion, 
looking  up  at  them  from  outside  the  partition.  They  asked 
me  a  good  many  questi9ns;  as,  what  my  name  was,  how  old 
I  was,  where  I  lived,  how  I  was  employed,  and  how  I  came 
there.  To  all  of  which,  that  I  might  commit  nobody,  I  in- 
vented, I  am  afraid,  appropriate  answers.  They  served  me 
with  the  ale,  though  I  suspect  it  was  not  the  Genuine 
Stunning;  and  the  landlord's  wife  opened  the  little  half- 
door  of  the  bar,  and  bending  down,  gave  me  my  money 
back,  and  gave  me  a  kiss  that  was  half  admiring  and  half 
compassionate,  but  all  womanly  and  good,  I  am  sure. 

I  know  I  do  not  exaggerate,  unconsciously  and  uninten- 
tionally, the  scantiness  of  my  resources  or  the  difficulties  of 
my  life.  I  know  that  if  a  shilling  were  given  me  by  Mr. 
Quinion  at  any  time,  I  spent  it  in  a  dinner  or  a  tea.  I  know 
that  I  worked,  from  morning  until  night,  with  common  men 
and  boys,  a  shabby  child.     I  know  that  I  lounged  about  the 


i64  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

streets,  insufficiently  and  unsatisfactorily  fed.  I  know  that, 
but  for  the  mercy  of  God,  I  might  easily  have  been,  for  any 
care  that  was  taken  of  me,  a  little  robber  or  a  little  vagabond. 

Yet  I  held  some  station  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's  too. 
Besides  that  Mr.  Quinion  did  what  a  careless  man  so  oc- 
cupied, and  dealing  with  a  thing  so  anomalous,  could,  to 
treat  me  as  one  upon  a  different  footing  from  the  rest,  I 
never  said,  to  man  or  boy,  how  it  was  that  I  came  to  be 
there,  or  gave  the  least  indication  of  being  sorry  that  I  was 
there.  That  I  suffered  in  secret,  and  that  I  suffered  ex- 
quisitely, no  one  ever  knew  but  I.  How  much  I  suffered, 
it  is,  as  I  have  said  already,  utterly  beyond  my  power  to  tell. 
But  I  kept  my  own  counsel,  and  I  did  my  work.  I  knew 
from  the  first,  that,  if  I  could  not  do  my  work  as  well  as  any 
of  the  rest,  I  could  not  hold  myself  above  slight  and  con- 
tempt. I  soon  became  at  least  as  expeditious  and  as  skillful 
as  either  of  the  other  boys.  Though  perfectly  familiar  with 
them,  my  conduct  and  manner  were  different  enough  from 
theirs  to  place  a  space  between  us.  They  and  the  men  gen- 
erally spoke  of  me  as  "  the  little  gent,"  or  "  the  young  Suf- 
folker."  A  certain  man  named  Gregory,  who  was  foreman 
of  the  packers,  and  another  named  Tipp,  who  was  the  car- 
man, and  wore  a  red  jacket,  used  to  address  me.  sometimes 
as  "  David:"  but  I  think  it  was  mostly  when  we  were  very 
confidential,  and  when  I  had  made  some  efforts  to  entertain 
them,  over  our  work,  with  some  results  of  the  old  read- 
ings; which  were  fast  perishing  out  of  my  remembrance. 
Mealy  Potatoes  uprose  once,  and  rebelled  against  my  be- 
ing so  distinguished;  but  Mick  Walker  settled  him  in  no 
time. 

My  rescue  from  this  kind  of  existence  I  considered  quite 
hopeless,  and  abandoned,  as  such,  altogether.  I  am  solemnly 
convinced  that  I  never  for  one  hour  was  reconciled  to  it,  or 
was  otherwise  than  miserably  unhappy;  but  I  bore  it;  and 
even  to  Peggotty,  partly  for  the  love  of  her  and  partly  for 
shame,  never  in  any  letter  (though  many  passed  between  us) 
revealed  the  truth. 

Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  were  an  addition  to  the  dis- 
tressed state  of  my  mind.  In  my  forlorn  state  I  became 
quite  attached  to  the  family,  an-d  used  to  walk  about,  busy 
with  Mrs.  Micawber's  calculations  of  ways  and  means,  and 
heavy  with  the  weight  of  Mr.  Micawber's  debts.  On  a  Sat- 
urday night,  which  was  my  grand  treat, — partly  because  it 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  165 

was  a  great  thing  to  walk  home  with  six  or  seven  shillings 
in  my  pocket,  looking  into  the  shops  and  thinking  what 
such  a  sum  would  buy,  and  partly  because  I  went  home 
early, — Mrs.  Micawber  would  make  the  most  heart-rending 
confidences  to  me;  also  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  I  mixed 
the  portion  of  tea  or  coffee  I  had  bought  over-night,  in  a 
little  shaving  pot,  and  sat  late  at  mybreakfast.  It  was  noth- 
ing  at  all  unusual  for  Mr.  Micawber  to  sob  violently  at  the 
beginning  of  one  of  these  Saturday  night  conversations,  and 
sing  about  Jack's  delight  being  his  lovely  Nan,  towards  the 
end  of  it.  I  have  known  him  to  come  home  to  supper  with 
a  flood  of  tears,  and  a  declaration  that  nothing  was  now  left 
but  a  jail;  and  go  to  bed  making  a  calculation  of  the  expense 
of  putting  bow-windows  to  the  house,  "in  case  anything 
turned  up,"  which  was  his  favorite  expression.  And  Mrs. 
Micawber  was  just  the  same. 

A  curious  equality  of  friendship,  originating,  I  suppose, 
in  our  respective  circumstances,  sprung  up  between  me  and 
these  people,  notwithstanding  the  ludicrous  disparity  in  our 
years.  But  I  never  allowed  myself  to  be  prevailed  upon  to 
accept  any  invitation  to  eat  and  drink  with  them  out  of  their 
stock  (knowing  that  they  got  on  badly  with  the  butcher  and 
baker,  and  had  often  not  too  much  for  themselves),  until 
Mrs.  Micawber  took  me  into  her  entire  confidence.  This 
she  did  one  evening  as  follows: 

**  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  I  make  no 
stranger  of  you,  and  therefore  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  are  coming  to  a  crisis." 

It  made  me  very  miserable  to  hear  it,  and  I  looked  at  Mrs. 
Micawber's  red  eyes  with  the  utmost  sympathy. 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  heel  of  a  Dutch  cheese — which 
is  not  adapted  to  the  wants  of  a  young  family" — said  Mra 
Micawber  "  there  is  really  not  a  scrap  of  anything  in  the 
larder.  I  was  accustomed  to  speak  of  the  larder  when  I 
lived  with  papa  and  mamma,  and  I  use  the  word  almost  un- 
consciously. What  I  mean  to  express,  is,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing to  eat  in  the  house." 

*  Dear  me  !"  I  said,  in  great  concern. 

I  had  two  or  three  shillings  of  my  week's  money  in  my 
pocket — from  which  I  presume  that  it  must  have  been  on  a 
Wednesday  night  when  we  held  this  conversation — and  I 
hastily  produced  them,  and  with  heartfelt  emotion  begged 
Mrs.  Micawber  to  accept  of  them  as  a  loan.     But  that  lady, 


166  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

^  >' 

kissing  me,  amd  making  me  put  them  back  in  my  pocket, 
replied  that  she  couldn't  think  of  it. 

"  No,  my  dear  Master  Copperfield,"  said  she,  "  far  be  it 
from  my  thoughts  !  But  you  have  a  discretion  beyond  your 
years,  and  can  render  me  another  kind  of  service,  if  you  will; 
and  a  service  I  will  thankfully  accept  of." 

I  begged  Mrs.  Micawber  to  name  it. 

"  I  have  parted  with  the  plate  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber. 
"Six  tea,  two  salt,  and  a  pair  of  sugars,  I  have  at  different 
dmes  borrowed  mjoney  on,  in  secret,  with  my  own  hands. 
But  the  twins  are  a  great  tie;  and  to  me,  with  my  recollec- 
tions of  papa  and  mamma,  these  transactions  are  very  painful. 
There  are  still  a  few  trifles  that  we  could  part  with.  Mr. 
Micawber's  feelings  would  never  allow  /iim  to  dispose  of 
them;  and  Clickett" — this  was  the  girl  from  the  workhouse 
' — "  being  of  a  vulgar  mind,  would  take  painful  liberties  if  so 
much  confidence  was  reposed  in  her.  Master  Copperfield, 
if  I  might  ask  you  " — 

T  understood  Mrs.  Micawber  now,  and  begged  her  to  make 
use  of  me  to  any  extent.  I  began  to  dispose  of  the  more 
portable  articles  of  property  that  very  evening,  and  went 
out  on  a  similar  expedition  almost  every  morning,  before  I 
went  to  Murdstone  and  Grinby's. 

Mr.  Micawber  had  a  few  books  on  a  little  chiffonier,  which 
he  called  the  library;  and  those  went  first.  I  carried  them, 
one  after  another,  to  a  bookstall  in  the  City  Road — one  part 
of  which,  near  our  house,  was  almost  all  bookstalls  and  bird- 
shops  then — and  sold  them  for  whatever  they  would  bring. 
The  keeper  of  this  bookstall,  who  lived  in  the  little  house 
behind  it,  used  to  get  tipsy  every  night,  and  to  be  violently 
scolded  by  his  wife  every  morning.  More  than  once,  when 
I  went  there  early,  I  had  audience  of  him  in  a  turn-up  bed- 
stead, with  a  cut  in  his  forehead  or  a  black  eye,  bearing 
witness  to  his  excesses  over  night  (I  am  afraid  he  was  quar- 
relsome in  his  drink),  and  he,  with  a  shaking  hand,  endeavor- 
ing to  find  the  needful  shillings  in  one  or  other  of  the  pockets 
of  his  clothes,  which  lay  upon  the  floor,  while  his  wife,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms  and  her  shoes  down  at  the  heel,  never 
left  off  rating  him.  Sometimes  he  had  lost  his  money,  and 
then  he  would  ask  me  to  call  again;  but  his  wife  had  always 
got  some — had  taken  his  I  dare  say,  while  he  was  drunk — 
and  secretly  completed  the  bargain  on  the  stairs,  as  we  went 
down  together. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  167 

At  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  too,  I  began  to  be  very  well 
known.  The  principal  gentleman  who  officiated  behind  the 
counter,  took  a  good  deal  of  notice  of  me;  and  often  got  me, 
I  recollect,  to  decline  a  Latin  noun  or  adjective,  or  to  con- 
jugate a  Latin  verb,  in  his  ear,  while  he  transacted  my  busi- 
ness. After  all  these  occasions  Mrs.  Micawber  made  a  little 
treat,  which  was  generally  a  supper  ;  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
relish  in  these  meals  which  I  well  remember. 

At  last  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  came  to  a  crisis,  and 
he  was  arrested  early  one  morning,  and  carried  over  to  the 
King's  Bench  Prison  in  the  Borough.  He  told  me,  as  he 
went  out  of  the  house,  that  the  God  of  day  had  now  gone 
down  upon  him — and  I  really  thought  his  heart  was  broken 
and  mine  too.  But  I  heard,  afterwards,  that  he  was  seen  to 
play  a  lively  game  at  skittles,  before  noon. 

On  the  first  Sunday  after  he  was  taken  there,  I  was  to  go 
and  see  him,  and  have  dinner  with  him.  I  was  to  ask  my 
way  to  such  a  place,  and  just  short  of  that  place  I  should 
see  such  another  place,  and  just  short  of  that  I  should  see  a 
yard,  which  I  was  to  cross,  and  keep  straight  on  until  I  saw 
a  turnkey.  All  this  I  did;  and  when  at  last  I  did  see  a 
turnkey  (poor  little  fellow  that  I  was  !),  and  thought  how, 
when  Roderick  Random  was  in  a  debtor's  prison,  there  was 
a  man  there  with  nothing  on  him  but  an  old  rug,  the  turnkey 
swam  before  my  dimmed  eyes  and  my  beating  heart. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  waiting  for  me  within  the  gate,  and  we 
went  up  to  his  room  (top  story  but  one),  and  cried  very 
much.  He  solemnly  conjured  me,  I  remember,  to  take  warn- 
ing by  his  fate;  and  to  observe  that  if  a  man  had  twenty 
pounds  a-year  for  his  income,  and  spent  nineteen  pounds 
nineteen  shillings  and  sixpence,  he  would  be  happy,  but  that 
if  he  spent  twenty  pounds  one  he  would  be  miserable.  After 
which  he  borrowed  a  shilling  of  me  for  porter,  gave  me  a 
written  order  on  Mrs.  Micawber  for  the  amount,  and  put 
away  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  cheered  up. 

We  sat  before  a  little  fire,  with  two  bricks  put  within  the 
rusted  grate,  one  on  each  side,  to  prevent  its  burning  too 
many  coals;  until  another  debtor,  who  shared  the  room  with 
Mr.  Micawber,  came  in  from  the  bakehouse  with  the  loin  of 
mutton  which  was  our  joint-stock  repast.  Then  I  was  sent 
up  to  "  Captain  Hopkins  "  in  the  room  overhead,  with  Mr. 
Micawber's  compliments,  and  I  was  his  young  friend,  and 
would  Captain  Hopkins  lend  me  a  knife  and  fork. 


i68  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Captain  Hopkins  lent  me  the  knife  and  fork,  with  his  com- 
pUments  to  Mr.  Micawber.  There  was  a  very  dirty  lady  in 
his  little  room,  and  two  wan  girls,  his  daughters,  with  shock 
heads  of  hair.  I  thought  it  was  better  to  borrow  Captain 
Hopkins's  knife  and  fork,  than  Captain  Hopkins's  comb.  The 
captain  himself  was  in  the  last  extremity  of  shabbiness,  with 
large  whiskers,  and  an  old,  old  brown  great-coat  with  no 
other  coat  below  it.  I  saw  his  bed  rolled  up  in  a  corner; 
and  what  plates  and  dishes  and  pots  he  had,  on  a  shelf,  and 
I  divined  (God  knows  how)  that  though  the  two  girls  with 
the  shock  heads  of  hair  were  Captain  Hopkins's  children, 
the  dirty  lady  was  not  married  to  Captain  Hopkins.  My 
timid  station  on  his  threshold  was  not  occupied  more  than 
a  couple  of  minutes  at  most;  but  I  came  down  again  with 
all  this  in  my  knowledge,  as  surely  as  the  knife  and  fork  were 
in  my  hand. 

There  was  something  gipsy-like  and  agreeable  in  the  din- 
ner after  all.  I  took  back  Captain  Hopkins's  knife  and  fork 
early  in  the  afternoon,  and  went  home  to  comfort  Mrs.  Mi- 
cawber with  an  account  of  my  visit.  She  fainted  when  she 
saw  me  return,  and  made  a  little  jug  of  egg-hot  afterwards 
to  console  us  while  we  talked  it  over. 

I  don't  know  how  the  household  furniture  came  to  be  sold 
for  the  family  benefit,  or  who  sold  it,  except  that  /  did  not. 
Sold  it  was,  however,  and  carried  away  in  a  van;  except  the 
bed,  a  few  chairs,  and  the  kitchen-table.  With  these  pos- 
sessions we  encamped,  as  it  were,  in  the  two  parlors  of  the 
emptied  house  in  Windsor  Terrace;  Mrs.  Micawber,  the  chil- 
dren, the  Orfling,  and  myself;  and  lived  in  those  rooms  night 
and  day.  I  have  no  idea  for  how  long,  though  it  seems  to 
me  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Mrs.  Micawber  resolved  to  move 
into  the  prison,  where  Mr.  Micawber  had  now  secured  a 
room  to  himself.  So  I  took  the  key  of  the  house  to  the  land- 
lord, who  was  very  glad  to  get  it,  and  the  beds  were  sent 
over  to  the  King's  Bench,  except  mine,  for  which  a  little 
room  was  hired  outside  the  walls  in  the  neighborhood  of  that 
Institution,  very  much  to  my  satisfaction,  since  the  Micaw- 
bers  and  I  had  become  too  used  to  one  another,  in  our  trou- 
bles, to  part.  The  Orfling  was  likewise  accommodated  with 
an  inexpensive  lodging  in  the  same  neighborhood.  Mine 
was  a  quiet  back  garret  with  a  sloping  roof,  commanding 
a  pleasant  prospect  of  a  timber-yard;  and  when  I  took 
possession  of   it,  with  the  reflection  that    Mr.  Micawber's 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  169 

troubles  had  come  to  a  crisis  at  last,  I  thought  it  quite  a 
paradise. 

All  this  time  I  was  working  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's  in 
the  same  common  way,  and  with  the  same  common  com- 
panions, and  with  the  same  sense  of  unmerited  degradation 
as  at  first.  But  I  never,  happily  for  me  no  doubt,  made  a 
single  acquaintance,  or  spoke  to  any  of  the  many  boys  whom 
I  saw  daily  in  going  to  the  warehouse,  in  coming  from  it, 
and  in  prowling  about  the  streets  at  meal  times.  I  led  the 
same  secretly  unhappy  life;  but  I  led  it  in  the  same  lonely, 
self-reliant  manner.  The  only  changes  I  am  conscious  of 
are,  firstly,  that  I  had  grown  more  shabby,  and  secondly, 
that  I  was  now  relieved  of  much  of  the  weight  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Micawber's  cares;  for  some  relatives  or  friends  had  en- 
gaged to  help  them  at  their  present  pass,  and  they  lived  more 
comfortably  in  the  prison  than  they  had  lived  for  a  long  while 
out  of  it.  I  used  to  breakfast  with  them  now,  in  virtue  of 
some  arrangement,  of  which  I  have  forgotten  the  details.  I 
forget,  too,  at  what  hour  the  gates  were  opened  in  the  morn- 
ing, admitting  of  my  going  in;  but  I  know  that  I  was  often 
up  at  six  o'clock,  and  that  my  favorite  lounging-place  in  the 
interval  was  old  London  Bridge,  where  I  was  wont  to  sit  in 
one  of  the  stone  recesses,  watching  the  people  going  by,  or 
to  look  over  the  balustrades  at  the  sun  shining  in  the  water, 
and  lighting  up  the  golden  flame  on  the  top  of  the  Monu- 
ment. The  Orfiing  met  me  here  sometimes,  to  be  told  some 
astonishing  fictions  respecting  the  wharves  and  the  Towei*; 
of  which  I  can  say  no  more  than  that  I  hope,  I  believed 
them  myself.  In  the  evening  I  used  to  go  back  to  the  prison, 
and  walk  up  and  down  the  parade  with  Mr.  Micawber;  or 
play  casino  with  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  hear  reminiscences  of 
her  papa  and  mamma.  Whether  Mr.  Murdstone  knew  where 
I  was,  I  am  unable  to  say.  I  never  told  them  at  Murdstone 
and  Grinby's. 

Mr.  Micawber's  affairs,  although  past  their  crisis,  were 
very  much  involved  by  reason  of  a  certain  "  Deed"  of  which 
I  used  to  hear  a  great  deal,  and  which  I  suppose,  now,  to 
have  been  some  former  composition  with  his  creditors, 
though  I  was  so  far  from  being  clear  about  it  then,  that  I 
am  conscious  of  having  confounded  it  with  those  demoniacal 
parchments  which  are  held  to  have,  once  upon  a  time,  ob- 
tained to  a  great  extent  in  Germany.  At  last  this  document 
appeared  to  be  got  out  of  the  way,  somehow;  at  all  events 


lyo  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

it  ceased  to  be  the  rock-ahead  it  had  been;  and  Mrs,  Mic- 
awber  informed  me  that  "  her  family"  had  decided  that  Mr. 
Micawber  should  apply  for  his  release  under  the  Insolvent 
Debtors  Act,  which  would  set  him  free,  she  expected,  in 
about  six  weeks. 

"  And  then,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  who  was  present,  "  I 
have  no  doubt  I  shall,  please  Heaven,  begin  to  be  before- 
hand with  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  perfectly  new  manner, 
if — in  short,  if  anything  turns  up." 

By  way  of  going  in  for  anything  that  might  be  on  the 
cards,  I  call  to  mind  that  Mr.  Micawber,  about  this  time, 
composed  a  petition  to  the  House  of  Commons,  praying  for 
an  alteration  in  the  law  of  imprisonment  for  debt.  I  set 
down  this  remembrance  here,  because  it  is  an  instance  to 
myself  of  the  manner  in  which  I  fitted  my  old  books  to  my 
altered  life,  and  made  stories  for  myself  out  of  the  streets, 
and  out  of  men  and  women;  and  how  some  main  points  in 
the  character  I  shall  unconsciously  develop,  I  suppose,  in 
writing  my  life,  were  gradually  forming  all  this  while. 

There  was  a  club  in  the  prison,  in  which  Mr.  Micawber, 
as  a  gentleman,  was  a  great  authority.  Mr.  Micawber  had 
stated  his  idea  of  this  petition  to  the  club,  and  the  club  had 
strongly  approved  of  the  same.  Wherefore  Mr.  Micawber 
(who  was  a  thoroughly  good-natured  man,  and  as  active  a 
creature  about  everything  but  his  own  affairs  as  ever  existed, 
and  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was  busy  about  something 
that  could  never  be  of  any  profit  to  him)  set  to  work  at  the 
petition,  invented  it,  engrossed  it  on  an  immense  sheet  of 
paper,  spread  it  out  on  a  table,  and  appointed  a  time  for  all 
the  club,  and  all  within  the  walls  if  they  chose,  to  come  up 
to  his  room  and  sign  it. 

When  I  heard  of  this  approaching  ceremony,  I  was  so 
anxious  to  see  them  all  come  in,  one  after  another,  though 
I  knew  the  greater  part  of  them  already,  and  they  me,  that 
I  got  an  hour's  leave  of  absence  from  Murdstone  and  Grinby's, 
and  established  myself  in  a  corner  for  that  purpose.  As 
many  of  the  principal  members  of  the  club  as  could  be  got 
into  the  small  room  without  filling  it,  supported  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber in  front  of  the  petition,  while  my  old  friend  Captain 
Hopkins  (who  had  washed  himself,  to  do  honor  to  so  solemn 
an  occasion)  stationed  himself  close  to  it,  to  read  it  to  all 
who  were  unacquainted  with  its  contents.  The  door  was 
then  thrown  open,  and  the  general  population  began  to  come 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  171 

in,  In  a  long  file:  several  waiting  outside,  while  one  entered, 
affixed  his  signature,  and  went  out.  To  everybody  in  suc- 
cession, Captain  Hopkins  said:  "  Have  you  read  it  ?" — "  No." 
— "  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  read  ?"  If  he  weakly  showed 
the  least  disposition  to  hear  it,  Captain  Hopkins,  in  a  loud 
sonorous  voice,  gave  him  every  word  of  it.  The  Captain 
would  have  read  it  twenty  thousand  times,  if  twenty  thous- 
and people  would  have  heard  him,  one  by  one.  I  remember 
a  certain  luscious  roll  he  gave  to  such  phrases  as  "The 
people's  representatives  in  Parliament  assembled,"  "  Your 
petitioners  therefore  humbly  approach  your  honorable 
house,"  '*  His  gracious  Majesty's  unfortunate  subjects,"  as 
if  the  words  were  something  real  in  his  mouth,  and  delicious 
to  taste;  Mr.  Micawber,  meanwhile,  listening  with  a  little  of 
an  author's  vanity,  and  contemplating  (not  severely)  the 
spikes  on  the  opposite  wall. 

As  I  walked  to  and  fro  daily  between  Southwark  and 
Blackfriars,  and  lounged  about  at  meal-times  in  obscure 
streets,  the  stones  of  which  may,  for  anything  I  know,  be 
worn  at  this  moment  by  my  childish  feet,  I  wonder  how 
many  of  these  people  were  wanting  in  the  crowd  that  used 
to  come  filing  before  me  in  review  again,  to  the  echo  of 
Captain  Hopkins's  voice  !  When  my  thoughts  go  back, 
now,  to  that  slow  agony  of  my  youth,  I  wonder  how  much 
of  the  histories  I  invented  for  such  people  hangs  like  a  mist 
of  fancy  over  well-remembered  facts  !  When  I  tread  the 
old  ground,  I  do  not  wonder  that  I  seem  to  see  and  pity, 
going  on  before  me,  an  innocent  romantic  boy,  making  his 
imaginative  world  out  of  such  strange  experiences  and 
sordid  things  I 


CHAPTER    XII. 

LIKING    LIFE   ON    MY    OWN    ACCOUNT    NO    BETTER,    I   FORM    A 
GREAT     RESOLUTION. 

In  due  time,  Mr.  Micawber's  petition  was  ripe  for  hearing; 
and  that  gentleman  was  ordered  to  be  discharged  under  the 
act,  to  my  great  joy.  His  creditors  were  not  implacable; 
and  Mrs.  Micawber  informed  me  that  even  the  revengeful 
bootmaker  had  declared  in  open  court  that  he  bore  him  no 


172  DAVID  COPPEKFIELD. 

malice,  but  that  when  money  was  owing  to  him  he  liked  to 
be  paid.     He  said  he  thought  it  was  human  nature. 

Mr.  Micawber  returned  to  the  King's  Bench  when  his  case 
was  over,  as  some  fees  were  to  be  settled,  and  some  formali- 
ties observed,  before  he  could  be  actually  released.  The 
club  received  him  with  transport,  and  held  an  harmonic 
meeting  that  evening  in  his  honor;  while  Mrs.  Micawber  and 
I  had  a  lamb's  fry  in  private,  surrounded  by  the  sleeping 
family. 

"  On  such  an  occasion  I  will  give  you,  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  in  a  little  more  flip,"  for  we 
had  been  having  some  already,  "  the  memory  of  my  papa  and 
mamma." 

"  Are  they  dead,  ma'am  ?"  I  inquired,  after  drinking  the 
toast  in  a  wine-glass. 

"  My  mamma  departed  this  life,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  be- 
fore Mr.  Micavvber's  difficulties  commenced,  or  at  least  be- 
fore they  became  pressing.  My  papa  lived  to  bail  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber several  times,  and  then  expired,  regretted  by  a  nu- 
merous circle." 

Mrs.  Micawber  shook  her  head,  and  dropped  a  pious  tear 
upon  the  twin  who  happened  to  be  in  hand. 

As  I  could  hardly  hope  for  a  more  favorable  opportunity 
of  putting  a  question  in  which  I  had  a  near  interest,  I  said 
to  Mrs.  Micawber: 

"  May  I  ask,  ma'am,  what  you  and  Mr.  Micawber  intend 
to  do,  now  that  Mr.  Micawber  is  out  of  his  difficulties,  and 
at  liberty  ?     Have  you  settled  yet  ?" 

"  My  family,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  always  said  those 
two  words  with  an  air,  though  I  never  could  discover  who 
came  under  the  denomination,  "  my  family  are  of  opinion 
that  Mr.  Micawber  should  quit  London,  and  exert  his  talents 
in  the  country.  Mr.  Micawber  is  a  man  of  great  talent. 
Master  Copperfield." 

I  said  I  was  sure  of  that. 

"  Of  great  talent,"  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  My  family 
are  of  opinion,  that,  with  a  little  interest,  something  might 
be  done  for  a  man  of  his  ability  in  the  Custom  House.  The 
influence  of  my  family  being  local,  it  is  their  wish  that  Mr. 
Micawber  should  go  down  to  Plymouth.  They  think  it  in- 
'?ispensable  that  he  should  be  upon  the  spot." 

"  That  he  may  be  ready  ?"  I  suggested. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  173 

"  Exactly,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  That  he  may  be 
ready — in  case  of  anything  turning  up." 

"  And  do  you  go,  too,  ma'am  ?" 

The  events  of  the  day,  in  combination  with  the  twins,  if 
not  with  the  flip,  had  made  Mrs.  Micawber  hysterical,  and 
she  shed  tears  as  she  replied: 

"  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  Mr.  Micawber  may 
have  concealed  his  difficulties  from  me  in  the  first  instance, 
but  his  sanguine  temper  may  have  led  him  to  expect  that  he 
would  overcome  them.  The  pearl  necklace  and  bracelets 
which  1  inherited  from  mamma,  have  been  disposed  of  for 
less  than  half  their  value;  and  the  set  of  coral,  which  was 
the  wedding  gift  of  my  papa,  has  been  actually  thrown  away 
for  nothing.  But  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  No  !" 
cried  Mrs.  Micawber,  more  affected  than  before,  *'  I  never 
will  do  it  !     It's  of  no  use  asking  me  !" 

I  felt  quite  uncomfortable — as  if  Mrs.  Micawber  supposed 
I  had  asked  her  to  do  anything  of  that  sort  ? — and  sat  look- 
ing at  her  in  alarm. 

"  Mr.  Micawber  has  his  faults.  I  do  not  deny  that  he  is  im- 
provident. I  do  not  deny  that  he  has  kept  me  in  the  dark  as 
to  his  resources  and  his  liabilities,  both,"  she  went  on,  looking 
at  the  wall ;  "  but  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber  !  " 

Mrs.  Micawber  having  now  raised  her  voice  into   a  per- 
fect scream,  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  ran  off  to  the  club- 
room,  and  disturbed  Mr.  Micawber  in  the  act  of  presiding 
at  a  long  table,  and  leading  the  chorus  of 
Gee  up,  Dobbin, 
Gee  ho,  Dobbin, 
Gee  up,  Dobbin, 
Gee  up,  and  gee  ho — o — o  ! 
— with  the  tidings  that  Mrs.  Micawber  wa-s.  in,  an  alarri/i/,g 
state,  upon  which  he  immediately  burst  into  tears,  and  came 
away  with  me  with  his  waistcoat  full  of  the  heads  aai  tails 
of  shrimps,  of  which  he  had  been  partaking. 

''  Emma,  my  angel !"  cried  Mr.  Micawber,  runuing  into 
the  room  ;  "  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  I  never  will  desert  you,  Micawber  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  My  life  !"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 
"I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it." 

'^  He  is  the  parent  of  my  children  !  He  is  the  father  of 
my  twins  !  He  is  the  husband  of  my  affections,"  cried  Mrs. 
Micawber,  struggling  ;  "  and  I  ne — ver-^will — desert  Mr 
Micawber !" 


174  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  so  deeply  affected  by  this  proof  of 
her  devotion,  (as  to  me,  I  was  dissolved  in  tears),  that  he 
hung  over  her  in  a  passionate  manner,  imploring  her  to  look 
up,  and  to  be  calm.  But  the  more  he  asked  Mrs.  Micawber 
to  look  up,  the  more  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  nothing  ;  and  the 
more  he  asked  her  to  compose  herself,  the  more  she  wouldn't. 
Consequently  Mr.  Micawber  was  soon  so  overcome,  that  he 
mingled  his  tears  with  hers  and  mine  ;  until  he  begged  me 
to  do  him  the  favor  of  taking  a  chair  on  the  staircase,  while 
he  got  her  into  bed.  I  would  have  taken  my  leave  for  the 
night,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  my  doing  that  until  the 
strangers'  bell  should  ring.  So  I  sat  at  the  staircase  win- 
dow, until  he  came  out  with  another  chair  and  joined  me. 

*'  How  is  Mrs.  Micawber  now,  sir  ?" 

"  Very  low,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  shaking  his  head,  "  re- 
action. Ah,  this  has  been  a  dreadful  day  !  We  stand  alone 
now — everything  is  gone  from  us  !" 

Mr.  Micawber  pressed  my  hand,  and  groaned,  and  after- 
wards shed  tears.  I  was  greatly  touched,  and  disappointed 
too,  for  I  had  expected  that  we  should  be  quite  gay  on  this 
happy  and  long-looked  for  occasion.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mic- 
awber were  so  used  to  their  old  difficulties,  I  think,  that  they 
felt  quite  shipwrecked  when  they  came  to  consider  that  they 
were  released  from  them.  All  their  elasticity  was  departed, 
and  I  never  saw  them  half  so  wretched  as  on  this  night ; 
insomuch  that  when  the  bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Micawber  walked 
with  me  to  the  lodge,  and  parted  from  me  there  with  a  bless- 
ing, I  felt  quite  afraid  to  leave  him  by  himself,  he  was  so 
profoundly  miserable. 

But  through  all  the  confusion  and  lowness  of  spirits  in 
which  we  had  been,  so  unexpectedly  to  me,  involved,  I 
plainly  discerned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  and  their 
family  were  going  away  from  London,  and  that  a  parting 
between  us  was  near  at  hand.  It  was  in  my  walk  home  that 
night,  and  in  the  sleepless  hours  which  followed  when  I  lay 
in  bed,  that  the  thought  first  occurred  to  me — though  I 
don't  know  how  it  came  into  my  head — which  afterwards 
shaped  itself  into  a  settled  resolution. 

I  had  grown  to  be  so  accustomed  to  the  Micawbers,  and 
had  been  so  intimate  with  them  in  their  distresses,  and  was 
so  utterly  friendless  without  them,  that  the  prospect  of  being 
thrown  upon  some  new  shift  for  a  lodging,  and  going  once 
more  among  unknown  people,  was  like  being  that  moment 
turned  adrift  into  my  present  life,  with  such  a  knowledge  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  175 

it  ready  made,  as  experience  had  given  me.  All  the  sensi- 
tive feelings  it  wounded  so  cruelly,  all  the  shame  and  misery 
it  kept  alive  within  my  breast,  became  more  poignant  as  I 
thought  of  this  ;  and  I  determined  that  the  life  was  unen- 
durable. 

That  there  was  no  hope  of  escape  from  it,  unless  the  es- 
cape was  my  own  act,  I  knew  quite  well.  I  rarely  heard 
from  Miss  Murdstone,  and  never  from  Mr.  Murdstone  :  but 
two  or  three  parcels  of  made  or  mended  clothes  had  come 
up  for  me,  consigned  to  Mr.  Quinion,  and  in  each  there  was 
a  scrap  of  paper  to  the  effect  that  J.  M.  trusted  D.  C.  was 
applying  himself  to  business,  and  devoting  himself  wholly 
to  his  duties — not  the  least  hint  of  my  ever  being  anything 
else  than  the  common  drudge  into  which  I  was  fast  set- 
tling down. 

The  very  next  day  showed  me,  while  my  mind  was  in  the 
first  agitation  of  what  it  had  conceived,  that  Mrs.  Micawber 
had  not  spoken  of  their  going  away  without  warrant.  They 
took  a  lodging  in  the  house  where  I  lived,  for  a  week ;  at 
the  expiration  of  which  time  they  were  to  start  for  Plymouth. 
Mr.  Micawber  himself  came  down  to  the  counting-house,  in 
the  afternoon,  to  tell  Mr.  Quinion  that  he  must  relinquish  me 
on  the  day  of  his  departure,  and  to  give  me  a  high  character, 
which  I  am  sure  I  deserved.  And  Mr.  Quinion,  calling  in 
Tipp  the  carman,  who  was  a  married  man,  and  had  a  room 
to  let,  quartered  me  prospectively  on  him — by  our  mutual 
consent,  as  he  had  every  reason  to  think  ;  for  I  said  nothing, 
though  my  resolution  was  now  taken. 

I  passed  my  evenings  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  during 
the  remaining  term  of  our  residence  under  the  same  roof  ; 
and  I  think  we  became  fonder  of  one  another  as  the  time 
went  on.  On  the  last  Sunday,  they  invited  me  to  dinner  ; 
and  we  had  a  loin  of  pork  and  apple  sauce,  and  a  pudding. 
I  had  bought  a  spotted  wooden  horse  over-night  as  a  parting 
gift  to  little  Wilkins  Micawber — that  was  the  boy-^and  a  doll 
for  little  Emma.  I  had  also  bestowed  a  shilling  on  the  Or- 
fling,  who  was  about  to  be  disbanded. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  day,  though  we  were  all  in  a  tender 
state  about  our  approaching  separation. 

"  I  shall  never,  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
"  revert  to  the  period  when  Mr.  Micawber  was  in  difficulties, 
without  thinking  of  you.  Yqur  conduct  has  always  been  of 
the  most  delicate  and  obliging  description.  You  have  never 
been  a  lodger.     You  have  been  a  friend." 


176  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr,  Micawber  ;  "  Copperfield,"  for  so  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  call  me,  of  late,  "  has  a  heart  to  feel 
for  the  distresses  of  his  fellow  creatures  when  they  are  behind 

a  cloud,  and  a  head  to  plan,  and  a  hand  to in  short,  a 

general  ability  to  dispose  of  such  available  property  as  could 
be  made  away  with." 

I  expressed  my  sense  of  this  commendation,  and  said  I 
was  very  sorry  we  were  going  to  lose  one  another. 

"  My  dear  young  friend/'  said  Mr.  Micawber^  "  I  am  older 
than  you  ;  a  man  of  some  experience  in  life,  and — and  of 
some  experience,  in  short,  in  difficulties  generally  speaking. 
At  present,  and  until  something  turns  up  (which  I  am,  I  may 
say,  hourly  expecting),  I  have  nothing  to  bestow  but  advice. 
Still  my  advice  is  so  far  worth  taking,  that — in  short,  that  I 
have  never  taken  it  myself,  and  am  the  " — here  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, who  had  been  beaming  and  smiling,  all  over  his  head 
and  face,  up  to  the  present  moment,  checked  himself  and 
frowned — "  the  miserable  wretch  you  behold." 

"  My  dear  Micawber  !"  urged  his  wife. 

*'  I  say,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  quite  forgetting  himself, 
and  smiling  again,  "  the  miserable  wretch  you  behold.  My 
advice  is,  never  do  to-morrow  what  you  can  to-day.  Pro- 
crastination is  the  thief  of  time.     Collar  him." 

"  My  poor  papa's  maxim,"  Mrs.  Micawber  observed. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  your  papa  was  very  well 
in  his  way,  and  heaven  forbid  that  I  should  disparage  him. 
Take  him  for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  shall — in  short,  make  the 
acquaintance,  probably,  of  anybody  else  possessing  at  his 
time  of  life,  the  same  legs  for  gaiters,  and  able  to  read  the 
same  description  of  print,  without  spectacles.  But  he  ap- 
plied that  maxim  to  our  marriage,  my  dear  ;  and  that  was  so 
far  prematurely  entered  into,  in  consequence,  that  I  never 
recovered  the  expense." 

Mr.  Micawber  looked  aside,  at  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  added: 
"  Not  that  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Quite  the  contrary,  my  love." 
After  which  he  was  grave  for  a  minute  or  so. 

*'  My  other  piece  of  advice,  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, "  you  know.  Annual  income  twenty  pounds,  annual 
expenditures  nineteen  ought  and  six,  result  happiness.  An- 
nual income,  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditures  twenty 
pounds  ought  and  six,  result  misery.  The  blossom  is  blighted, 
the  leaf  is  withered,  the  god  of  day  goes  down  upon  the 
dreary  scene,  and — and,  in  short,  you  are  forever  floored. 
As  I  am." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  177 

To  make  his  exaiAple  the  more  impressive,  Mr.  Micawber 
drank  a  glass  of  punch  with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment  and 
satisfaction,  and  whistled  the  College  Hornpipe. 

I  did  not  fail  to  assure  him  that  I  would  store  these  pre- 
cepts in  my  mind,  though  indeed  I  had  no  need  to  do  so, 
for  at  the  time  they  affected  me  visibly.  Next  morning  I  met 
the  whole  family  at  the  coach-office,  and  saw  them  with  a 
desolate  heart,  take  their  places  outside,  at  the  back. 

"  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  God  bless 
you  !  I  never  can  forget  all  that,  you  know,  and  I  never 
would  if  I  could." 

"  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  farewell !  Every 
happiness  and  prosperity  !  If,  in  the  progress  of  revolving 
years,  I  could  persuade  myself  that  my  blighted  destiny  had 
been  a  warning  to  you,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  occupied 
another  man's  place  in  existence  altogether  in  vain.  In  case 
of  anything  turning  up  (of  which  I  am  rather  confident),  I 
shall  be  extremely  happy  if  it  should  be  in  my  power  to  im- 
prove your  prospects." 

I  think,  as  Mrs.  Micawber  sat  at  the  back  of  the  coach, 
with  the  children,  and  I  stood  in  the  road  looking  wistfully 
at  them,  a  mist  cleared  from  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  what  a 
little  creature  I  really  was.  I  think  so,  because  she  beckoned 
me  to  climb  up  with  quite  a  new  and  motherly  expression  in 
her  face,  and  put  her  arm  round  my  neck,  and  gave  me  just 
such  a  kiss  as  she  might  have  given  to  her  own  boy.  liad 
barely  time  to  get  down  again  before  the  coach  started,  and 
I  could  hardly  see  the  family  for  the  handkerchiefs  they 
waved.  It  was  gone  in  a  minute.  The  Orfiing  and  I  stood 
looking  vacantly  at  each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  then  shook  hands  and  said  good-by  ;  she  going  back,  I 
suppose,  to  Saint  Luke's  workhouse,  as  I  went  to  begin  my 
weary  day  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's. 

But  with  no  intention  of  passing  many  more  weary  days 
there.  No.  I  had  resolved  to  run  away. — To  go,  by  some 
means  or  other,  down  into  the  country,  to  the  only  relation 
I  had  in  the  world,  and  tell  my  story  to  my  aunt,  Miss  Betsey. 

I  have  already  observed  that  I  don't  know  how  this  des- 
perate idea  came  into  my  brain.  But,  once  there,  it  remained 
there;  and  hardened  into  a  purpose  than  which  I  have  never 
entertained  a  more  determined  purpose  in  my  life.  I  am 
far  from  sure  that  I  believed  there  was  anything  hopeful  in 
it,  but  my  mind  was  thoroughly  made  up  that  it  must  be  car«> 
ried  into  execution. 


178  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

Again  and  again,  and  a  hundred  times  again,  since  the 
night  when  the  thought  had  first  occurred  to  me  and  ban- 
ished sleep,  I  had  gone  over  that  old  story  of  my  poor 
mother's,  about  my  birth,  which  it  had  been  one  of  my  great 
delights  in  the  old  time  to  hear  her  tell  and  which  I  knew 
by  heart.  My  aunt  walked  into  that  story,  and  walked  out 
of  it,  a  dread  and  awful  personage  ;  but  there  was  one  little 
trait  in  her  behavior  which  I  liked  to  dwell  on,  and  which 
gave  me  some  faint  shadow  of  encouragement.  I  could  not 
forget  how  my  mother  had  thought  that  she  felt  her  touch 
her  pretty  hair  with  no  ungentle  hand  ;  and  though  it  might 
have  been  altogether  my  mother's  fancy,  and  might  have  had 
no  foundation  whatever  in  fact,  I  made  a  little  picture,  out 
of  it,  of  my  terrible  aunt  relenting  towards  the  girlish  beauty 
that  I  recollected  so  well  and  loved  so  much,  which  softened 
the  whole  narrative.  It  is  very  possible  that  it  had  been  in 
my  mind  a  long  time,  and  had  gradually  engendered  my  de- 
termination. 

As  I  did  not  even  know  where  Miss  Betsey  lived,  I  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Peggotty,  and  asked  her,  incidentally,  if  she 
remembered  ;  pretending  that  I  had  heard  of  such  a  lady 
living  at  a  certain  place  I  named  at  random,  and  had  a 
curiosity  to  know  if  it  were  the  same.  In  the  course  of  that 
letter,  I  told  Peggotty  that  I  had  a  particular  occasion  for 
half  a  guinea ;  and  that  if  she  could  lend  me  that  sum  until 
I  cDuld  repay  it,  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and 
would  tell  her  afterwards  what  I  wanted  it  for. 

Peggotty's  answer  soon  arrived,  and  was,  as  usual,  full  of 
affectionate  devotion.  She  enclosed  the  half  guinea  (I  was 
afraid  she  must  have  had  a  world  of  trouble  to  get  it  out'of 
Mr.  Barkis's  box),  and  told  me  that  Miss  Betsey  lived  near 
Dover,  but  whether  at  Dover  itself,  at  Hythe,  Sandgate,  or 
Folkstone,  she  could  not  say.  One  of  our  men,  however, 
informing  me  on  my  asking  him  about  these  places,  that 
they  were  all  close  together,  I  deemed  this  enough  for  my 
object,  and  resolved  to  set  out  at  the  end  of  that  week. 

Being  a  very  honest  little  creature,  and  unwilling  to  dis- 
grace the  memory  I  was  going  to  leave  behind  me  at  Murd- 
stone  and  Grinby's,  I  considered  myself  bound  to  remain 
until  Saturday  night;  and,  as  I  had  been  paid  a  week's  wages 
in  advance  when  I  first  came  there,  not  to  present  myself 
in  the  counting-house  at  the  usual  hour,  to  receive  my 
stipend,     Fpr  this  expre?;^  xeason,  I  had  borrowed  the  half- 


UAVID  COPPERFIELD.  179 

guinea,  that  I  might  not  be  without  a  fund  for  my  travelling- 
expenses.  Accordingly,  when  the  Saturday  night  came,  and 
we  were  all  waiting  in  the  warehouse  to  be  paid,  and  'i'ipp 
the  carman,  who  always  took  precedence,  went  in  first  to 
draw  his  money,  I  shook  Mick  Walker  by  the  hand  ;  asked 
him  when  it  came  to  his  turn  to  be  paid,  to  say  to  Mr. 
Quinion  that  I  had  gone  to  move  my  box  to  Tipp's  ;  and, 
bidding  a  last  good-night  to  Mealy  Potatoes,  ran  away. 

My  box  was  at  my  old  lodging,  over  the  water,  and  I  had 
written  a  direction  for  it  on  the  back  of  one  of  our  address 
cards  that  we  nailed  on  the  casks  :  "  Master  David,  to  be 
left  till  called  for,  at  the  Coach  Office,  Dover."  This  I  had 
in  my  pocket  ready  to  put  on  the  box,  after  I  should  have 
got  it  out  of  the  house  ;  and  as  I  went  towards  my  lodging, 
I  looked  about  me  for  some  one  who  would  help  me  to  carry 
it  to  the  booking-office. 

There  was  a  long-legged  young  man  with  a  very  little 
empty  donkey-cart,  standing  near  the  Obelisk,  in  the  Black- 
friars  Road,  whose  eye  I  caught  as  I  was  going  by,  and  who 
addressed  me  as  "Sixpenn'orth  of  bad  ha'pence,"  hoped 
*'  I  should  know  him  agin  to  swear  to  " — in  allusion,  I  have 
no  doubt,  to  my  staring  at  him.  I  stopped  to  assure  him 
that  I  had  not  done  so  in  bad  manners,  but  uncertain 
whether  he  might  or  might  not  like  a  job. 

"  Wot  job?"  said  the  long-legged' young  man. 

"  To  move  a  box,"'  I  answered. 

"  Wot  box  ! '  said  the  long-legged  young  man. 

I  told  him  mine,  which  was  down  that  street  there,  and 
which  I  wanted  him  to  take  to  the  Dover  coach-office  for 
sixpence. 

'*  Done  with  you  for  a  tanner  !  "  said  the  long-legged  young 
man,  and  directly  got  upon  his  cart,  which  was  nothing  but 
a  large  wooden-tray  on  wheels,  and  rattled  away  at  such  a 
rate,  that  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  pace  with  the 
donkey. 

There  was  a  defiant  manner  about  this  young  man,  and 
particularly  about  the  way  in  which  he  chewed  straw  as  he 
spoke  to  me,  that  I  did  not  much  like  ;  as  the  bargain  was 
made,  however,  I  took  him  up-stairs  to  the  room  I  was  leav- 
ing, and  we  brought  the  box  down,  and  put  it  on  his  cart. 
Now,  I  was  unwilling  to  put  the  direction-card  on  there, 
lest  any  of  my  landlord's  family  should  fathom  what  I  was 
doing,  and  detain  me  ;  so  I  said  to  the  young  man  that  I 
would  be  glad  if  he  would  stop  for  a  minute,  when  he  came 


i«o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

to  the  dead-wall  of  the  King's  Bench  prison.  The  words 
were  no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth,  than  he  rattled  away  as  if 
he,  my  box,  the  cart,  and  the  donkey,  were  all  equally  mad; 
and  I  was  quite  out  of  breath  with  running  and  calling  after 
him,  when  I  caught  him  at  the  place  appointed. 

Being  much  flushed  and  excited,  I  tumbled  my  half-guinea 
out  of  my  pocket  in  pulling  the  card  out>  I  put  it  in  my 
mouth  for  safety,  and  though  my  hands  trembled  a  good 
deal,  had  just  tied  the  card  on  very  much  to  my  satisfaction,, 
when  I  felt  myself  violently  chuckled  under  the  chin  by  the 
long-legged  young  man,  and  saw  my  half-guinea  fly  out  of 
my  mouth  into  his  hand. 

**  Wot  !"  said  the  young  man,  seizing  me  by  my  jacket 
collar,  with  a  frightful  grin.  "  This  is  a  pollis  case,  is  it  ? 
You're  a  going  to  bolt,  are  you  ?  Come  to  the  polHs,  you 
young  warmin,  come  to  the  pollis  !" 

"  You  give  me  my  money  back,  if  you  please,"  said  I,  very 
much  frightened;  *'and  leave  me  alone." 

"Come  to  the  pollis  !"  said  the  young  man.  "You  shall 
prove  it  yourn  to  the  pollis." 

"  Give  me  my  box  and  money,  will  you,"  I  cried,  bursting 
into  tears. 

The  young  man  still  replied:  "Come  to  the  pollis  !"  and 
was  dragging  me  against  the  donkey  in  a  violent  manner,  as 
if  there  were  any  aflinity  between  that  animal  and  a  magis- 
trate, when  he  changed  his  mind,  jumped  into  the  cart,  sat 
upon  my  box,  and,  exclaiming  that  he  would  drive  to  the 
pollis  straight,  rattled  away  harder  than  ever. 

I  ran  after  him  as  fast  as  I  could,  but  I  had  no  breath  to 
call  out  with,  and  should  not  have  dared  to  call  out,  now, 
if  I  had.  I  narrowly  escaped  being  run  over,  twenty  times 
at  least,  in  half  a  mile.  Now  I  lost  him,  now  I  saw  him, 
now  I  lost  him,  now  I  was  cut  at  with  a  whip,  now  shouted 
at,  now  down  in  the  mud,  now  up  again,  now  running  into 
somebody's  arms,  now  running  headlong  at  a  post.  At 
length,  confused  by  fright  and  heat,  and  doubting  whether 
half  London  might  not  by  this  time  be  turned  out  for  my 
apprehension,  I  left  the  young  man  to  go  where  he  would 
with  my  box  and  money;  and,  panting  and  crying,  but  never 
stopping,  faced  about  for  Greenwich,  which  I  had  understood 
was  on  the  Dover  Road:  taking  very  little  more  out  of  the 
world,  towards  the  retreat  of  my  aunt,  Miss  Betsey,  than  I 
had  brought  into  it,  on  the  night  when  my  arrival  gave  her 
so  much  umbrage. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  i8i 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    SEQUEL   OF    MY    RESOLUTION. 

"For  anything  I  know,  I  may  have  had  some  wild  idea  of 
running  all  the  way  to  Dover,  when  I  gave  up  the  pursuit  of 
the  young  man  with  the  donkey  cart,  and  started  for  Green- 
wich. My  scattered  senses  were  soon  collected  as  to  that 
point,  if  I  had;  for  I  came  to  a  stop  in  the  Kent  Road,  at  a 
terrace  with  a  piece  of  water  before  it,  and  a  great  foolish 
image  in  the  middle,  blowing  a  dry  shell.  Here  I  sat  down 
on  a  door-step,  quite  spent  and  exhausted  with  the  efforts  I 
had  already  made,  and  with  hardly  breath  enough  to  cry  for 
the  loss  of  my  box  and  half-guinea. 

It  was  by  this  time  dark;  I  heard  the  clocks  strike  ten,  as 
I  sat  resting.  But  it  was  a  summer  night,  fortunately,  and 
fine  weather.  When  I  had  recovered  my  breath,  and  had 
got  rid  of  a  stifling  sensation  in  my  throat,  I  rose  up  and 
went  on.  In  the  midst  of  my  distress,  I  had  no  notion  of 
going  back.  I  doubt  if  I  should  have  had  any,  though  there 
had  been  a  Swiss  snow-drift  in  the  Kent  Road. 

But  my  standing  possessed  of  only  three-halfpence  in  the 
world  (and  I  am  sure  I  wonder  how  they  came  to  be  left  in 
my  pocket  on  a  Saturday  night)  troubled  me  none  the  less 
because  I  went  on.  I  began  to  picture  to  myself,  as  a  scrap 
of  newspaper  intelligence,  my  being  found  dead  in  a  day  or 
two,  under  some  hedge;  and  I  trudged  on  miserably,  though 
as  fast  as  I  could,  until  I  happened  to  pass  a  little  shop, 
where  it  was  written  up  that  ladies'  and  gentlemen's  ward- 
robes were  bought,  and  that  the  best  price  was  given  for 
rags,  bones,  and  kitchen-stuff.  The  master  of  this  shop  was 
sitting  at  the  door  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  smoking;  and  as  there 
were  a  great  many  coats  and  pairs  of  trowsers  dangling  from 
the  low  ceiling,  and  only  two  feeble  candles  burning  inside 
to  show  what  they  were,  I  fancied  that  he  looked  like  a  man 
of  revengeful  disposition,  who  had  hung  all  his  enemies,  and 
was  enjoying  himself. 

My  late  experience  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  suggested 
to  me  that  here  might  be  the  means  of  keeping  off  the  wolf 
for  a  little  while.  I  went  up  the  next  by-street,  took  off  my 
waistcoat,  rolled  it  neatly  under  my  arm,  and  came  back  to 
the  shop-door.  "  If  you  please,  sir,"  I  said,  "  I  am  to  sell 
this  for  a  fair  price." 


i82  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mt  DoUoby — Dolloby  was  the  name  over  the  shop-door, 
at  least — took  the  waistcoat,  stood  his  pipe  on  its  head 
against  the  door-post,  went  into  the  shop,  followed  by  me, 
snuffed  the  two  candles  with  his  fingers,  spread  the  waistcoat 
on  the  counter  and  looked  at  it  there,  held  it  up  against  the 
light,  and  looked  at  it  there,  and  ultimately  said: 

"  What  do  you  call  a  price,  now,  for  this  here  little 
weskit  ?" 

*'  Oh  !  you  know  best,  sir,"  I  returned,  modestly. 

"  I  can't  be  buyer  and  seller,  too,"  said  Mr.  Dolloby. 
"  Put  a  price  on  this  here  little  weskit." 

"  Would  eighteen  pence  be  " — I  hinted,  after  some  hesita- 
tion. 

Mr.  Dolloby  rolled  it  up  again,  and  gave  it  me  back.  "  I 
should  rob  my  family,"  he  said,  ^'  if  I  was  to  offer  ninepence 
for  it." 

This  was  a  disagreeable  way  of  putting  the  business;  be- 
cause it  imposed  on  me,  a  perfect  stranger,  the  unpleasant- 
ness of  asking  Mr.  Dolloby  to  rob  his  family  on  my  account. 
My  circumstances  being  so  very  pressing,  however,  I  said  I 
would  take  ninepence  for  it,  if  he  pleased.  Mr.  Dolloby,  not 
■(vithout  some  considerable  grumbling,  gave  ninepence.  I 
wished  him  good  night,  and  walked  out  of  the  shop,  the 
richer  by  that  sum,  and  the  poorer  by  a  waistcoat.  But  when 
[  buttoned  my  jacket,  that  was  not  much. 

Indeed,  I  foresaw  pretty  clearly  that  my  jacket  would  go 
next,  and  that  I  should  have  to  make  the  best  of  my  way  to 
Dover  in  a  shirt  and  pair  of  trowsers,  and  might  deem  my- 
$elf  lucky  if  I  got  there  in  that  trim.  But  my  mind  did  not 
run  so  much  on  this  as  might  be  supposed.  Beyond  a  gen- 
eral impression  of  the  distance  before  me,  and  of  the  young 
man  with  the  donkey-cart  having  used  me  cruelly,  I  think  I 
had  no  very  urgent  sense  of  my  difficulties  when  I  once  again 
Bet  off  with  my  ninepence  in  my  pocket. 

A  plan  had  occurred  to  me  for  passing  the  night,  which  I 
was  going  to  carry  into  execution.  This  was,  to  lie  behind 
the  wall  at  the  back  of  my  old  school,  in  a  corner  where 
there  used  to  be  a  haystack.  I  imagined  it  would  be  a  kind 
of  company  to  have  the  boys,  and  the  bed-room  where  I 
used  to  tell  the  stories,  so  near  me:  although  the  boys  would 
know  nothing  of  my  being  there,  and  the  bed-room  would 
yield  me  no  shelter. 

I  had  had  a  hard  day's  work,  and  was  pretty  well  jaded 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  183 

when  I  came  climbing  out,  at  last,  upon  the  level  of  Black- 
heath.  It  cost  me  some  trouble  to  find  out  Salem  House; 
but  I  found  it,  and  I  found  a  haystack  in  the  corner,  and 
I  lay  down  by  it;  having  first  walked  round  the  wall,  and 
looked  up  at  the  windows,  and  seen  that  all  was  dark  and 
silent  within.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  lonely  sensation  of 
first  lying  down,  without  a  roof  above  my  head  ! 

Sleep  came  upon  me  as  it  came  on  many  other  outcasts, 
against  whom  house-doors  were  locked,  and  house-dogs 
barked,  that  night — and  I  dreamed  of  lying  on  my  old  school 
bed,  talking  to  the  boys  in  my  room;  and  found  myself 
sitting  upright,  wdth  Steerforth's  name  upon  my  lips,  looking 
wildly  at  the  stars  that  were  glistening  and  glimmering  above 
me.  When  I  remembered  where  I  was  at  that  untimely 
hour,  a  feeling  stole  upon  me  that  made  me  get  up,  afraid 
of  I  don't  know  what,  and  walk  about.  But  the  fainter 
glimmering  of  the  stars,  and  the  pale  light  in  the  sky  where 
the  day  was  coming,  reassured  me:  and  my  eyes  being  very 
heavy,  I  lay  down  again,  and  slept — though  with  a  know- 
ledge in  my  sleep  that  it  was  cold — until  the  warm  beams 
of  the  sun,  and  the  ringing  of  the  getting-up  bell  at  Salem 
House,  awoke  me.  If  I  could  have  hoped  that  Steerforth 
was  there,  I  would  have  lurked  about  until  he  came  out 
alone;  but  I  knew  he  must  have  left  long  since.  Traddles 
still  remained,  perhaps,  but  it  was  very  doubtful;  and  I  had 
not  sufficient  confidence  in  his  discretion  or  good  luck,  how- 
ever strong  my  reliance  was  on  his  good-nature,  to  wish  to 
trust  him  with  my  situation.  So  I  crept  away  from  the  wall 
as  Mr.  Creakle's  boys  were  getting  up,  and  struck  into  the 
long  dusty  track  which  I  had  first  known  to  be  the  Dover 
road  when  I  was  one  of  them,  and  when  I  little  expected 
that  any  eyes  would  ever  see  the  wayfarer  I  was  now,  upon  it. 

What  a  different  Sunday  morning  from  the  old  Sunday 
morning  at  Yarmouth  !  In  due  time  I  heard  the  church- 
bells  ringing,  as  I  plodded  on;  and  I  met  people  who  were 
going  to  church;  and  I  passed  a  church  or  two  where  the 
congregation  were  inside,  and  the  sound  of  singing  came  out 
into  the  sunshine,  while  the  beadle  sat  and  cooled  himself  in 
the  shade  of  the  porch,  or  stood  beneath  the  yew.-tree,  with 
his  hand  to  his  forehead,  glowering  at  me  going  by.  But  the 
peace  and  rest  of  the  old  Sunday  morning  were  on  every- 
thing, except  me.  That  was  the  difference.  I  felt  quite 
wicked  in  my  dirt  and  dust,  and  with  my  tangled  hair.     But 


154  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

for  the  quiet  picture  I  had  conjured  up,  of  my  mother  in  her 
youth  and  beauty,  weeping  by  the  fire,  and  my  aunt  relent- 
ing to  her,  I  hardly  think  I  should  have  had  courage  to  go 
on  until  next  day.  But  it  always  went  before  me,  and  I  fol- 
lowed. 

I  got,  that  Sunday,  through  three-and-twenty  miles  on  the 
straight  road,  though  not  very  easily,  for  I  was  ne^'  to  that 
kind  of  toil.  I  see  myself,  as  evening  closes  in,  coming  over 
the  bridge  at  Rochester,  footsore  and  tired,  and  eating  br  ad 
hat  I  had  bought  for  supper.  One  or  two  little  houses, 
with  the  notice,  "  Lodgings  for  Travelers,"  hanging  out,  had 
tempted  me;  but  I  was  afraid  of  spending  the  few  pence  I 
had,  and  was  even  more  afraid  of  the  vicious  looks  of  the 
trampers  I  had  met  or  overtaken.  I  sought  no  shelter, 
therefore,  but  the  sky;  and  toiling  into  Chatham, — which, 
in  that  night's  aspect,  is  a  mere  dream  of  chalk,  and  draw- 
bridges, and  mastless  ships  in  a  muddy  river,  roofed  like 
Noah's  arks, — crept,  at  last,  upon  a  sort  of  grass-grown  bat- 
lery  overhanging  a  lane,  where  a  sentry  was  walking  to  and 
fro.  Here  I  lay  down,  near  a  cannon;  and,  happy  in  the 
society  of  the  sentry's  footsteps,  though  he  knew  no  more 
of  my  being  above  him  than  the  boys  at  Salem  House  had 
known  of  my  lying  by  the  wall,  slept  soundly  until  morning. 

Very  stiff  and  sore  of  foot  I  was  in  the  morning,  and  quite 
dazed  by  the  beating  of  drums  and  marching  of  troops, 
which  seemed  to  hem  me  in  on  every  side  when  I  went 
down  towards  the  long,  narrow  street.  Feeling  that  I  could 
go  but  a  very  little  way  that  day,  if  I  were  to  reserve  my 
strength  for  getting  to  my  journey's  end,  I  resolved  to  make 
the  sale  of  my  jacket  its  principal  business.  Accordingly,  I 
took  the  jacket  off,  that  I  might  learn  to  do  without  it;  and 
carrying  it  under  my  arm,  began  a  tour  of  inspection  of  the 
various  slop-shops. 

It  was  a  likely  place  to  sell  a  jacket  in;  for  the  dealers 
in  second-hand  clothes  wdre  numerous,  and  were,  generally 
speaking,  on  the  look-out  for  customers  at  their  shop-doors. 
But  as  most  of  them  had,  hanging  up  among  their  stock,  an 
officer's  coat  or  two,  epaulets  and  all,  I  was  rendered 
timid  by  tlie  costly  nature  of  their  dealings,  and  walked 
about  {o¥  a  long  time  without  offering  my  merchandise  to 
any  one. 

This  modesty  of  mine  directed  my  attention  to  the  marine- 
store  shops,  and  such  shops  as  Mr.  Dolloby's,  in  preference 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  185 

to  the  regular  dealers.  At  last  I  found  one  that  I  thought 
looked  promising,  at  the  corner  of  a  dirty  lane,  ending  in 
an  inclosure  full  of  stinging  nettles,  against  the  palings  of 
which  some  second-hand  sailors'  clothes,  that  seem  to  have 
overflown  the  shop,  were  fluttering  among  some  cots,  and 
rusty  guns,  and  oilskin  hats,  and  certain  trays  full  of  so 
many  old  rusty  keys  of  so  many  sizes  that  they  seemed 
various  enough  to  open  all  the  doors  in  the  world. 

Into  this  shop,  which  was  low  and  small,  and  which  was 
darkened  rather  than  lighted  by  a  little  window,  overhung 
with  clothes,  and  was  descended  into  by  some  steps,  I  went 
with  a  palpitating  heart;  which  was  not  relieved  when  an 
ugly  old  man,  with  the  lower  part  of  his  face  all  covered 
with  a  stubby  grey  beard,  rushed  out  of  a  dirty  den  behind 
it,  and  seized  me  by  the  hair  of  my  head.  He  was  a  dread- 
ful old  man  to  look  at,  in  a  filthy  flannel  waistcoat,  and 
smelling  terribly  of  rum.  His  bedstead,  covered  with  a 
tumbled  and  ragged  piece  of  patchwork,  was  in  the  den  he 
had  come  from,  where  another  little  window  showed  a  pros- 
pect of  more  stinging  nettles,  and  a  lame  donkey. 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  want  ?"  grinned  this  old  man,  in  a 
fierce,  monotonous  whine.  "  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs,  what 
do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,  what  do  you  want? 
Oh,  goroo,  goroo  !" 

I  was  so  much  dismayed  by  these  words,  and  particularly 
by  the  repetition  of  the  last  unknown  one,  which  was  a  kind 
of  rattle  in  his  throat,  that  I  could  make  no  answer;  here- 
upon the  old  man,  still  holding  me  by  the  hair,  repeated: 

"Oh,  what  do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs,  what 
do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,  what  do  you  want  ! 
Oh,  goroo  !"^ — which  he  screamed  out  of  himself,  with  an 
energy  that  made  his  eyes  start  in  his  head. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  I  said,  trembling,  "  if  you  would  buy  a 
jacket." 

"  Oh,  let's  see  the  jacket !"  cried  the  old  man.  "  Oh,  my 
heart  on  fire,  show  the  jacket  to  us  !  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs, 
bring  the  jacket  out  !" 

With  that  he  took  his  trembling  hands,  which  were  like 
the  claws  of  a  great  bird,  out  of  my  hair;  and  put  on  a  pair 
of  spectacles,  not  at  all  ornamental  to  his  inflamed  eyes. 

"  Oh,  how  much  for  the  jacket  ?"  cried  the  old  man,  after 
examining  it.     ''  Oh— goroo  ! — how  much  for  the  jacket  ?" 

"  Half-a-crown,"  I  answered,  recovering  myself. 


186  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  no  !  Oh, 
my  eyes,  no  !    Oh,  my  limbs  no  !     Eighteenpence.  Goroo  !" 

Every  time  he  uttered  this  ejaculation,  his  eyes  seemed 
to  be  in  danger  of  starting  out;  and  every  sentence  he  spoke, 
he  delivered  in  a  sort  of  tune,  always  exactly  the  same,  and 
more  like  a  gust  of  wind,  which  begins  low,  mounts  up  high, 
and  falls  again,  than  any  other  comparison  I  can  find  for  it. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  glad  to  have  closed  the  bargain,  "  I'll  take 
eighteenpence." 

"Oh,  my  liver  !"  cried  the  old  man,  throwing  the  jacket 
on  a  shelf.  "  Get  out  of  the  shop  !  Oh,  my  lungs,  get  out 
of  the  shop  !  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs — goroo  ! —  don't  ask 
for  money;    make  it  an  exchange." 

I  never  was  so  frightened  in  my  life,  before  or  since;  but 
I  told  him  humbly  that  I  wanted  money,  and  that  nothing 
else  was  of  any  use  to  me,  but  that  I  would  wait  for  it,  as  he 
desired  outside,  and  had  no  wish  to  hurry  him.  So  I  went 
outside,  and  sat  down  in  the  shade  in  a  corner.  And  I 
sat  there  so  many  hours,  that  the  shade  became  sunlight, 
and  the  sunlight  became  shade  again,  and  still  I  sat  there 
waiting  for  the  money. 

There  never  was  such  another  drunken  madman  in  that 
line  of  business,  I  hope.  That  he  was  well  known  in  the 
neighborhood  and  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  having  sold 
himself  to  the  devil,  I  soon  understood  from  the  visits  he 
received  from  the  boys,  who  continually  came  skirmishing 
about  the  shop,  shouting  that  legend,  and  calling  to  him  to 
bring  out  his  gold.  "  You  ain't  poor,  you  know,  Charley, 
as  you  pretend.  Bring  out  your  gold.  Bring  out  some  of 
the  gold  you  sold  yourself  to  the  devil  for.  Come!  It's  in 
the  lining  of  the  mattress,  Charley.  Rip  it  open  and  let's 
have  some!"  This,  and  many  offers  to  lend  him  a  knife  for 
the  purpose,  exasperated  him  to  such  a  degree,  that  the 
whole  day  was  a  succession  of  rushes  on  his  part,  and  flights 
on  the  part  of  the  boys.  Sometimes  in  his  rage  he  would 
take  me  for  one  of  them,  and  come  at  me,  mouthing  as  if  he 
were  going  to  tear  me  in  pieces;  then,  remembering  me,  just 
in  time,  would  dive  into  the  shop,  and  lie  upon  his  bed,  as  I 
thought  from  the  sound  of  his  voice,  yelling  in  a  frantic 
way,  to  his  own  windy  tune,  the  Death  of  Nelson;  with  an 
Oh!  before  every  line,  and  innumerable  Goroos  interspersed. 
As  if  this  were  not  bad  enough  for  me,  the  boys  connecting 
me  with  the  establishment,  on  account  of  the  patience  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  187 

perseverance  with  which  I  sat  outside,  half-dressed,  pelted 
me,  and  used  me  very  ill  all  day. 

He  made  many  attempts  to  induce  me  to  consent  to  an 
exchange;  at  one  time  coming  out  with  a  fishing-rod,  at 
another  with  a  fiddle,  at  another  with  a  cocked  hat,  at  an- 
other with  a  flute.  But  I  resisted  all  these  overtures,  and 
sat  there  in  desperation;  each  time  asking  him,  with  tears  in 
my  eyes,  for  my  money  or  my  jacket.  At  last  he  began  to 
pay  me  in  halfpence  at  a  time;  and  was  full  two  hours  get- 
ting by  easy  stages  to  a  shilling. 

"Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs!"  he  cried,  peeping  hideously 
out  of  the  shop,  after  a  long  pause,  "  will  you  go  for  two- 
pence more  ?" 

"  I  can't,"  I  said;  "  I  shall  be  starved." 

"  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver!  will  you  go  for  threepence  ?" 

"  I  would  go  for  nothing,  if  I  could,"  I  said,  "  but  I  want 
the  money  badly." 

"Oh,  go- — roo!"  (it  is  really  impossible  to  express  how  he 
twisted  this  ejaculation  out  of  himself,  as  he  peeped  round 
the  door-post  at  me,  showing  nothing  but  his  crafty  old 
head);  "will  you  go  for  fourpence  ?" 

I  was  so  faint  and  weary  that  I  closed  with  this  offer;  and 
taking  the  money  out  of  his  claw,  not  without  trembling, 
went  away  more  hungry  and  thirsty  than  I  had  ever  been,  a 
little  before  sunset.  But  at  an  expense  of  threepence  I  soon 
refreshed  myself  completely,  and,  being  in  better  spirits 
then,  limped  seven  miles  upon  my  road. 

My  bed  at  night  was  under  another  haystack,  where  I 
rested  comfortably,  after  having  washed  my  blistered  feet 
in  a  stream,  and  dressed  them  as  well  as  I  was  able  with 
some  cool  leaves.  When  I  took  the  road  again  next  morn- 
ing, I  found  that  it  lay  through  a  succession  of  hop-grounds 
and  orchards.  It  was  sufficiently  late  in  the  year  for  the 
orchards  to  be  ruddy  with  ripe  apples;  and  in  a  few  places 
the  hop-pickers  were  already  at  work,  I  thought  it  all  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  and  made  up  my  mind  to  sleep  among 
the  hops  that  night:  imagining  some  cheerful  companion- 
ship in  the  long  perspective  poles,  with  the  graceful  leaves 
twining  round  them. 

The  trampers  were  worse  than  ever  that  day,  and  inspired 
me  with  a  dread  that  is  yet  quite  fresh  in  my  mind.  Some 
of  them  were  most  ferocious-looking  ruffians,  who  stared  at 
me  as  I  went  by;  and  stopped,  perhaps,  and  called  after  me 


i88  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

to  come  back  and  speak  to  them;  and  when  I  took  to  mf 
heels,  stoned  me.  I  recollect  one  young  fellow — a  tinker,  I 
suppose,  from  his  wallet  and  brazier — who  had  a  woman 
with  him,  and  who  faced  about  and  stared  at  me  thus;  and 
then  roared  at  me  in  such  a  tremendous  voice  to  come  back, 
that  I  halted  and  looked  round. 

''  Come  here,  when  you're  called,"  said  the  tinker,  "or  I'll 
rip  your  young  body  open." 

I  thought  it  best  to  go  back.  As  I  drew  nearer  to  them, 
trying  to  propitiate  the  tinker  by  my  looks,  I  observed  that 
the  woman  had  a  black  eye. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  said  the  tinker,  griping  the  bosom 
of  my  shirt  with  his  blackened  hand. 

"  I'm  going  to  Dover,"  I  said. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?"  asked  the  tinker,  giving 
his  hand  another  turn  in  my  shirt,  to  hold  me  more  securely. 

*'  I  come  from  London,"  I  said. 

"  What  lay  are  you  upon  ?"  asked  the  tinker.  "  Are  you 
a  prig?" 

"  N— no,"  I  said. 

"  Ain't  you,  by  G — !  If  you  make  a  brag  of  your  honesty 
to  me,"  said  the  tinker,  ''  I'll  knock  your  brains  out." 

With  his  disengaged  hand  he  made  a  menace  of  striking 
me,  and  then  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Have  you  got  the  price  of  a  pint  of  beer  about  you  ?" 
said  the  tinker.  **If  you  have,  out  with  it,  afore  I  take 
it  away." 

I  should  certainly  have  produced  it,  but  that  I  met  the 
woman's  look,  and  saw  her  very  slightly  shake  her  head,  and 
form  "  No  !"  with  her  lips. 

"I  am  very  poor,"  I  said,  attempting  to  smile,  "and  have 
got  no  money." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,"  said  the  tinker,  looking  so 
sternly  at  me,  that  I  almost  feared  he  saw  the  money  in  my 
pocket. 

"  Sir  !"  I  stammered. 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  said  the  tinker,  "  by  wearing  my 
brother's  silk  handkerchief  ?  Give  it  over  here  !"  And  he 
had  mine  off  my  neck  in  a  moment,  and  tossed  it  to  the 
woman. 

The  woman  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  as  if  she  thought 
this  a  joke,  and  tossing  it  back  to  me,  nodded  once,  as  slightly 
as  before,  and  made  the  word  "  Go  !"  with  her  lips.     Before 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  189 

I  could  obey,  however,  the  tinker  seized  the  handkerchief 
out  of  my  hand  with  a  roughness  that  threw  me  away  Hke  a 
feather,  and  putting  it  loosely  round  his  own  neck,  turned 
upon  the  woman  with  an  oath,  and  knocked  her  down.  I 
never  shall  forget  seeing  her  fall  backward  on  the  hard  road, 
and  lie  there  with  her  bonnet  tumbled  off,  and  her  hair  all 
whitened  in  the  dust ;  nor,  when  I  looked  back  from  a  dis- 
tance, seing  her  sitting  on  the  pathway,  which  was  a  bank 
by  the  roadside,  wiping  the  blood  from  her  face  with  a  cor- 
ner of  her  shawl,  while  he  went  on  ahead. 

This  adventure  frightened  me  so,  that  afterwards,  when  I 
saw  any  of  these  people  coming,  I  turned  back  until  I  could 
find  a  hiding-place,  where  I  remained  until  they  had  gone 
out  of  sight ;  which  happened  so  often,  that  I  was  very  seri- 
ously delayed.  But  under  this  difficulty,  as  under  all  the 
other  difficulties  of  my  journey,  I  seemed  to  be  sustained 
and  led  on  by  my  fanciful  picture  of  my  mother  in  her  youth, 
before  I  came  into  the  world.  It  always  kept  me  company. 
It  was  there,  among  the  hops,  when  I  lay  down  to  sleep  ;  it 
was  with  me  on  my  waking  in  the  morning  ;  it  went  before 
me  all  day.  I  have  associated  it,  ever  since,  with  the  sunny 
street  of  Canterbury,  dozing  as  it  were  in  the  hot  light ; 
and  with  the  sight  of  its  old  houses  and  gateways,  and  the 
stately,  gray  Cathedral,  with  the  rooks  sailing  round  the 
towers.  When  I  came,  at  last,  upon  the  bare,  wide  downs 
near  Dover,  it  relieved  the  solitary  aspect  of  the  scene  with 
hope  ;  and  not  until  I  reached  that  first  great  aim  of  my 
journey,  and  actually  set  foot  in  the  town  itself,  on  the  sixth 
day  of  my  flight  did  it  desert  me.  But  then,  strange  to  say, 
as  I  stood  with  my  ragged  shoes,  and  my  dusty,  sunburnt, 
half-clothed  figure,  in  the  place  so  long  desired,  it  seemed 
to  vanish  like  a  dream  and  to  leave  me  helpless  and  dispirited. 

I  inquired  about  my  aunt  among  the  boatmen  first,  and  re- 
ceived various  answers.  One  said  she  lived  in  the  South 
Foreland  Light,  and  had  singed  her  whiskers  by  doing  so  ; 
another,  that  she  was  made  fast  to  the  buoy  outside  the  har- 
bor, and  could  only  be  visited  at  half-tide  ;  a  third,  that  she 
was  locked  up  in  Maidstone  Jail  for  child-stealing  ;  a  fourth, 
that  she  was  seen  to  mount  a  broom  in  the  last  high  wind, 
and  make  direct  for  Calais.  The  fly-drivers,  among  whom  I 
inquired  next,  were  equally  jocose  and  equally  disrespectful; 
and  the  shop-keepers,  not  liking  my  appearance,  generally 
replied,  without  hearing  what  I  had  to  say,  that  they  had  got 


I90  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

nothing  for  me.  I  felt  more  miserable  and  destitute  than  I 
had  done  at  any  period  of  my  running  away.  My  money 
was  all  gone,  I  had  nothing  left  to  dispose  of  ;  I  was  hungry, 
thirsty,  and  worn  out ;  and  seemed  as  distant  from  my  end 
as  if  I  had  remained  in  London. 

The  morning  had  worn  away  in  these  inquiries,  and  I  was 
sitting  on  the  step  of  an  empty  shop  at  a  street  corner,  near 
the  market-place,  deliberating  upon  wandering  toward  those 
other  places  which  had  been  mentioned,  when  a  fly-driver, 
coming  by  with  his  carriage,  dropped  a  horsecloth.  Some- 
thing good-natured  in  the  man's  face,  as  I  handed  it  up,  en- 
couraged me  to  ask  him  if  he  could  tell  me  where  Miss  Trot- 
wood  lived  ;  though  I  had  asked  the  question  so  often,  that 
it  almost  died  upon  my  lips. 

"  Trotwood,"  said  he.  "  Let  me  see.  I  know  the  name, 
too.     Old  lady  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  rather." 

"  Pretty  stiff  in  the  back  ?"  said  he,  making  himself  upright. 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "  I  should  think  it  very  likely." 

"  Carries  a  bag  ?"  said  he — "  bag  with  a  good  deal  of  room 
in  it — is  gruffish,  and  comes  down  upon  you,  sharp  ?" 

My  heart  sunk  within  me  as  I  acknowledged  the  undoubt- 
ed accuracy  of  this  description. 

"  Why  then,  I  tell  you  what,"  said  he.  "  If  you  go  up 
there,"  pointing  with  his  whip  towards  the  heights,  "  and 
keep  right  on  till  you  come  to  some  houses  facing  the  sea, 
I  think  you'll  hear  of  her.  My  opinion  is  she  won't  stand 
anything,  so  here's  a  penny  for  you." 

I  accepted  the  gift  thankfully,  and  bought  a  loaf  with  it. 
Dispatching  this  refreshment  by  the  way,  I  went  in  the  di- 
rection my  friend  had  indicated,  and  walked  on  a  good  dis- 
tance without  coming  to  the  houses  he  had  mentioned.  At 
length  I  saw  some  bef.ore  me;  and  approaching  them,  went 
into  a  little  shop  (it  was  what  we  used  to  call  a  general 
shop,  at  home),  and  inquired  if  they  could  have  the  good- 
ness to  tell  me  where  Miss  Trotwood  lived.  I  addressed 
myself  to  a  man  behind  the  counter,  who  was  weighing  some 
rice  for  a  young  woman;  but  the  latter  taking  the  inquiry 
to  herself,  turned  round  quickly. 

"  My  mistress  ?"  she  said.  "  What  do  you  want  with  her, 
boy  ?" 

"  I  want,"  I  replied,  "  to  speak  to  her,  if  you  please." 

"  To  beg  of  her,  you  mean,"  retorted  the  damsel. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


19 


"  No,"  I  said,  "  indeed."  But  suddenly  remembering  that 
in  truth  I  came  for  no  other  purpose,  I  held  my  peace  in 
confusion,  and  felt  my  face  burn. 

My  aunt's  handmaid,  as  I  supposed  she  was  from  what 
she  had  said,  put  her  rice  in  a  little  basket  and  walked  out 
of  the  shop;  telling  me  that  I  could  follow  her,  if  I  wanted 
to  know  where  Miss  Trotwood  lived.  I  needed  no  second 
permission ;  though  I  was  by  this  time  in  such  a  state  of 
consternation  and  agitation,  that  my  legs  shook  under  me. 
I  followed  the  young  woman,  and  we  soon  came  to  a  very 
neat  little  cottage  with  cheerful  bow-windows:  in  front  of  it, 
a  small  square  graveled  court  or  garden  full  of  flowers, 
carefully  tended,  and  smelling  deliciously. 

"  This  is  Miss  Trotwood's,"  said  the  young  woman.  "  Now 
you  know;  and  that's  all  I  have  got  to  say."  With  which 
words  she  hurried  into  the  house,  as  if  to  shake  off  the  re- 
sponsibility of  my  appearance;  and  left  me  standing  at  the 
garden-gate,  looking  disconsolately  over  the  top  of  it  towards 
the  parlor  window,  where  a  muslin  curtain  partly  undrawn 
in  the  middle,  a  large  round  green  screen  or  fan  fastened  on 
to  the  windoAv-sill,  a  small  table,  and  a  great  chair,  suggested 
to  me  that  my  aunt  might  be  at  that  moment  seated  in  aw- 
ful state. 

My  shoes  were  by  this  time  in  a  woful  condition.  The 
soles  had  shed  themselves  bit  by  bit,  and  the  upper  leathers 
had  broken  and  burst  until  the  very  shape  and  form  of 
shoes  had  departed  from  them.  My  hat  (which  had  served 
me  for  a  night-cap,  too)  was  so  crushed  and  bent,  that  no 
old  battered  handle-less  saucepan  on  a  dunghill  need  have 
been  ashamed  to  vie  with  it.  My  shirt  and  trowsers,  stained 
with  heat,  dew,  grass,  and  the  Kentish  soil  on  which  I  had 
slept — and  torn  besides — might  have  frightened  the  birds 
from  my  aunt's  garden,  as  I  stood  at  the  gate.  My  hair  had 
known  no  comb  or  brush  since  I  left  London.  My  face, 
neck,  and  hands,  from  unaccustomed  exposure  to  the  air 
and  sun,  were  burnt  to  a  berry  brown.  From  head  to  foot 
I  v/as  powdered  almost  as  white  with  chalk  and  dust,  as  if  I 
had  come  out  of  a  lime-kiln.  In  this  plight,  and  with  a 
strong  consciousness  of  it,  I  waited  to  introduce  myself  to, 
and  make  my  first  impression  on,  my  formidable  aunt. 

The  unbroken  stillness  cf  the  parlor  window  leading  me 
to  infer,  after  a-while,  that  she  was  not  there,  I  lifted  up  my 
eyes  to  the  window  above  it,  where  I  saw  a  florid,  pleasant- 


192  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

looking  gentleman,  with  a  gray  head,  Who  shut  up  one  eye 
in  a  grotesque  manner,  nodded  his  head  at  me  several  times, 
shook  it  at  me  as  often,  laughed,  and  went  away. 

I  had  been  discomposed  enough  before;  but  I  was  so 
much  the  more  discomposed  by  this  unexpected  behavior, 
that  I  was  on  the  point  of  slinking  off,  to  think  how  I  had 
best  proceed,  when  there  came  out  of  the  house  a  lady  with 
a  handkerchief  tied  over  her  cap,  and  a  pair  of  gardening 
gloves  on  her  hands,  wearing  a  gardening  pocket  like  a  toll- 
man's apron,  and  carrying  a  great  knife.  I  knew  her  im- 
mediately to  be  Miss  Betsey,  for  she  came  stalking  out  of 
the  house  exactly  as  my  poor  mother  had  so  often  described 
her  stalking  up  our  garden  at  Blunderstone  Rookery. 

"  Go  away  !"  said  Miss  Betsey,  shaking  her  head,  and  mak- 
ing a  distant  chop  in  the  air  with  her  knife.  Go  along  !  No 
boys  here  !" 

1  watched  her,  with  my  heart  at  my  lips,  as  she  marched 
to  a  corner  of  her  garden,  and  stooped  to  dig  up  some  little 
root  there.  Then,  without  a  scrap  of  courage,  but  with  a 
great  deal  of  desperation,  I  went  softly  and  stood  beside 
her,  touching  her  with  my  finger. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  I  began. 

She  started,  and  looked  up. 

"  If  you  please,  aunt." 

"  Eh  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey,  in  a  tone  of  amazement  I 
have  never  heard  approached. 

"  If  you  please,  aunt,  I  am  your  nephew." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !"  said  my  aunt.  And  sat  flat  down  in  the 
garden-path. 

"  I  am  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunderstone,  in  Suffolk — 
where  you  came,  on  the  night  when  I  was  born,  and  saw  my 
dear  mamma  I  have  been  very  unhappy  since  she  died.  I 
have  been  slighted,  and  taught  nothing,  and  thrown  upon 
myself,  and  put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  It  made  me  run 
rway  to  you.  I  was  robbed  at  first  setting  out,  and  have 
walked  all  the  way,  and  have  never  slept  in  a  bed  since  I 
began  the  journey."  Here  my  self-support  gave  way  all  at 
once;  and  with  a  movement  of  my  hands,  intended  to  show 
her  my  ragged  state,  and  call  it  to  witness  that  I  had  suffered 
something,  I  broke  into  a  passion  of  crying,  which  I  sup- 
pose had  been  pent  up  within  me  all  the  week. 

My  aunt,  with  every  sort  of  expression  but  wonder  dis- 
charged from  her  countenance,  sat  on  the  gravel,  staring  at 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  193 

me,  until  I  began  to  cry;  when  she  got  up  in  a  great  hurry, 
collared  me,  and  took  me  into  the  parlor.  Her  first  pro- 
ceeding there  was  to  unlock  a  tall  press,  bring  out  several 
bottles,  and  pour  some  of  the  contents  of  each  into  my 
mouth.  I  think  they  must  have  been  taken  out  at  random, 
for  I  am  sure  I  tasted  aniseed  water,  anchovy  sauce,  and 
salad  dressing.  When  she  had  administered  these  restora- 
tives, as  I  was  still  hysterical,  and  unable  to  control  my  sobs, 
she  put  me  on  the  sofa,  with  a  shawl'under  my  head,  and  the 
handkerchief  from  her  own  head  under  my  feet,  lest  I  should 
sully  the  cover;  and  then,  sitting  herself  down  behind 
the  green  fan  or  screen  I  have  already  mentioned^  so 
that  I  could  not  see  her  face,  ejaculated  at  intervals, 
"  Mercy  on  us  !"  letting  those  exclamations  off  like  a 
minute  gun. 

After  a  time  she  rang  the  bell.  "  Janet,"  said  my  aunt, 
when  her  servant  came  in.  "  Go  upstairs,  give  my  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Dick,  and  say  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  him." 

Janet  looked  a  little  surprised  to  see  me  lying  stiffly  on  the 
sofa  (I  was  afraid  to  move  lest  it  should  be  displeasing  to  my 
aunt),  but  went  on  her  errand.  My  aunt,  with  her  hands 
behind  her  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  until  the  gentle- 
man who  had  squinted  at  me  from  the  upper  window  came 
in  laughing. 

"  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  "  don't  be  a  fool,  because  no- 
body can  be  more  discreet  than  you  can,  when  you  choose. 
We  all  know  that.     So  don't  be  a  fool,  whatever  you  are." 

The  gentleman  was  serious  immediately,  and  looked  at  me, 
I  thought,  as  if  he  would  entreat  me  to  say  nothing  about 
the  window. 

"  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  "  you  have  heard  me  mention 
David  Copperfield  ?  Now  don't  pretend  not  to  have  a  mem- 
ory, because  you  and  I  know  better." 

"  David  Copperfield  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick,  who  did  not  am)ear 
to  me  to  remember  much  about  it.  "  David  Copperfield  !  O 
yes,  to  be  sure.     David,  certainly." 

"  Well,"  said  my  auni,  "  this  is  his  boy — his  son.  He  would 
be  as  like  his  father  as  it's  possible  to  be,  if  he  was  not  so 
like  his  mother,  too." 

"  His  son  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick.     "  David's  son  ?     Indeed  !" 

"  Yes,"  pursued  my  aunt,  "  and  he  has  done  a  pretty  piece 
of  business.  He  has  run  away.  Ah  !  His  sister,  Betsey 
Trotwood,  never  would  have  run  away."     My  aunt  shook 


194  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

her  head  firmly,  confident  in  the  character  and  behavior  of 
the  girl  who  never  was  born. 

"  Oh  !  you  think  she  wouldn't  have  run  away  ?"  said  Mr. 
Dicit. 

"  Bless  and  save  the  man,"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  sharply, 
"  how  he  talks  !  Don't  I  know  she  wouldn't  ?  She  would 
have  lived  with  her  god-mother,  and  we  should  have  been 
devoted  to  one  another.  Where,  in  the  name  of  wonder, 
should  his  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood,  have  run  from,  or  to  ?" 

"  Nowhere,"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

"  Well  then,"  returned  my  aunt,  softened  by  the  reply, 
"  how  can  you  pretend  to  be  wool-gathering,  Dick,  when 
you  are  as  sharp  as  a  surgeon's  lancet?  Now,  here  you  see 
young  David  Copperfield,  and  the  question  I  put  to  you  is, 
what  shall  I  do  with  him  ?" 

"  What  shall  you  do  with  him  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick,  feebly, 
scratching  his  head.     *'  Oh  !  do  with  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  grave  look  and  her  forefinger 
held  up.     "  Come  !  I  want  some  very  sound  advice." 

"  Why,  if  I  was  you,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  considering,  and  look- 
ing vacantly  at  me,  "  I  should — "  The  contemplation  of  me 
seemed  to  inspire  him  with  a  sudden  idea,  and  he  added, 
briskly,  "  I  should  wash  him  !" 

"  Janet,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  round  with  a  quiet  triumph, 
which  I  did  not  then  understand,  "  Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right. 
Heat  the  bath  !" 

Although  I  was  deeply  interested  in  this  dialogue,  I  could 
not  help  observing  my  aunt,  Mr.  Dick,  and  Janet,  while  it 
was  in  progress,  and  completing  a  survey  I  had  already  been 
engaged  in  making  of  the  room. 

My  aunt  was  a  tall,  hard-featured  lady,  but  by  no  means 
ill-looking.  There  was  an  inflexibility  in  her  face,  in  her 
voice,  in  her  gait  and  carriage,  amply  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  effect  she  had  made  upon  a  gentle  creature  like  my 
mother;  but  her  features  were  rather  handsome  than  other- 
wise, though  unbending  and  austere.  I  particularly  noticed 
that  she  had  a  very  quick,  bright,  eye.  Her  hair,  which  was 
grey,  was  arranged  in  two  plain  divisions,  under  what  I  be- 
lieve would  be  called  a  mob-cap:  I  mean  a  cap,  much  more 
common  then  than  now,  with  side-pieces  fastening  under  the 
chin.  Her  dress  was  of  a  lavender  color,  and  perfectly  neat; 
but  scantily  made,  as  if  she  desired  to  be  as  little  encum- 
bered as  possible.     I  remember  that  I  thought,  .^n  form,  it 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  I95 

more  like  a  riding-habit  with  the  superfluous  skirt  cut  off, 
than  anything  else.  She  wore  at  her  side  a  gentleman's  gold 
watch,  if  I  might  judge  from  its  size  and  make,  with  an  ap- 
propriate chain  and  seals;  she  had  some  linen  at  her  throat 
not  unlike  a  shirt-collar,  and  things  at  her  wrists  like  little 
shirt-wristbands. 

Mr.  Dick,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  gray-headed,  and 
florid:  I  should  have  said  all  about  him,  in  saying  so,  had 
not  his  head  been  curiously  bowed^not  by  age;  it  reminded 
me  of  one  of  Mr.  Creakle's  boy's  heads  after  a  beating — and 
his  gray  eyes  prominent  and  large,  with  a  strange  kind  of 
watery  brightness  in  them  that  made  me,  in  combination  with 
his  vacant  manner,  his  submission  to  my  aunt,  and  his  child- 
ish delight  when  she  praised  him,  suspect  him  of  being  a  lit- 
tle mad;  though,  if  he  were  mad,  how  he  came  to  be  there 
puzzled  me  extremely.  He  wrs  dressed  like  any  other  or- 
dinary gentleman,  in  a  loose  gray  morning  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and  white  trowsers;  and  had  his  watch  in  his  fob,  and 
his  money  in  his  pockets;  which  he  rattled  as  if  he  were  very 
proud  of  it. 

Janet  was  a  pretty  blooming  girl,  of  about  nineteen  or 
twenty,  and  a  perfect  picture  of  neatness.  Though  I  made 
no  further  observation  of  her  at  the  moment,  I  may  mention 
here  what  I  did  not  discover  until  afterwards,  namely,  that 
she  was  one  of  a  series  of  protegees  whom  my  aunt  had  taken 
into  her  service  expressly  to  educate  in  a  renouncement  of 
mankind,  and  who  had  generally  completed  their  abjuration 
by  marrying  the  baker. 

The  room  was  as  neat  as  Janet  or  my  aunt.  As  I  laid 
down  my  pen,  a  moment  since,  to  think  of  it,  the  air  from 
the  sea  came  blowing  in  again  mixed  with  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers;  and  I  saw  the  old-fashioned  furniture  brightly 
rubbed  and  polished,  my  aunt's  inviolable  chair  and  table 
by  the  round  green  fan  in  the  bow-w^indow,  the  drugget- 
covered  carpet,  the  cat,  the  kettle-holder,  the  two  canaries, 
the  old  china,  the  punchbowl  full  of  dried  rose  leaves,  the 
tall  press  guarding  all  sorts  of  bottles  and  pots,  and,  wonder- 
fully out  of  keeping  with  the  rest,  my  dusty  self  upon  the 
sofa,  taking  note  of  everything. 

Janet  had  gone  away  to  get  the  bath  ready,  when  my  aunt, 
to  my  great  alarm,  became  in  one  moment  rigid  with  indigna- 
tion, and  had  hardly  voice  to  cry  out,  "Janet !  Donkeys  !  " 

Upon  which,  Janet  came  running  up  the  stairs  as  if  the 


tq6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

house  were  in  flames,  darted  out  on  a  little  piece  of  green  in 
fiont,  and  warned  off  two  saddle-donkeys,  lady-ridden,  that 
had  presumed  to  set  hoof  upon  it;  while  my  aunt,  rushing 
out  of  the  house,  seized  the  bridle  of  a  third  animal  laden 
with  a  bestriding  child,  turned  him,  led  him  forth  from  those 
sacred  precincts,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  unlucky  urchin 
in  attendance  who  had  dared  to  profane  that  hallowed 
ground. 

To  this  hour  I  don't  know  whether  my  aunt  had  any  law- 
ful right  of  way  over  that  patch  of  green;  but  she  had  set- 
tled it  in  her  own  mind  that  she  had,  and  it  was  all  the 
same  to  her.  The  one  great  outrage  of  her  life,  demanding 
to  be  constantly  avenged,  was  the  passage  of  a  donkey  over 
that  immaculate  spot.  In  whatever  occupation  she  was  en- 
gaged, however  interesting  to  her  the  conversation  in  which 
she  was  taking  part,  a  donkey  turned  the  current  of  her 
ideas  in  a  moment,  and  she  was  upon  him  straight.  Jugs  of 
water  and  watering-pots  were  kept  in  secret  places  ready  to 
be  discharged  on  the  offending  boys;  sticks  were  laid  in 
ambush  behind  the  door;  sallies  were  made  at  all  hours,  and 
incessant  war  prevailed.  Perhaps  this  was  an  agreeable  ex- 
citement to  the  donkey-boys;  or  perhaps  the  more  sagacious 
of  the  donkeys,  understanding  how  the  case  stood,  delighted 
with  constitutional  obstinacy  in  coming  that  way.  I  only 
know  that  there  were  three  alarms  before  the  bath  was 
ready;  and  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  last  and  most  des- 
perate of  all,  I  saw  my  aunt  engage,  single-handed,  with  a 
sandy-headed  lad  of  fifteen,  and  bump  his  sandy  head 
against  her  own  gate,  before  he  seemed  to  comprehend  what 
was  the  matter.  These  interruptions  were  the  more  ridicu- 
lous to  me,  because  she  was  giving  me  broth  out  of  a  table- 
spoon at  the  time  (having  firmly  persuaded  herself  that  I 
was  actually  starving,  and  must  receive  nourishment  at  first 
in  very  small  quantities),  and,  while  my  mouth  was  yet  open 
to  receive  the  spoon,  she  would  put  it  back  into  the  basin, 
cry,  "Jai^et !  DonkeysJ"  and  go  out  to  the  assault. 

The  bath  was  a  great  comfort.  For  I  began  to  be  sen- 
sible of  acute  pains  in  my  limbs  from  lying  out  in  the  fields, 
and  was  now  so  tired  and  low  that  I  could  hardly  keep  my- 
self awake  for  five  minutes  together.  When  I  had  bathed, 
they  (I  mean  my  aunt  and  Janet)  enrobed  me  in  a  shirt  and 
pair  of  trowsers  belonging  to  Mr.  Dick,  and  tied  me  up  in 
two  or  three  great  shawls.     What  sort  of  a  bundle  I  looked 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD  197 

like,  I  don't  know,  but  I  felt  a  very  hot  one.  Feeling  also 
very  faint  and  drowsy,  I  soon  lay  down  on  the  sofa  again 
and  fell  asleep. 

It  might  have  been  a  dream,  originating  in  the  fancy  which 
had  occupied  my  mind  so  long,  but  I  awoke  with  the  im- 
pression that  my  aunt  had  come  and  bent  over  me,  and  had 
put  my  hair  away  from  my  face,  and  laid  my  head  more 
comfortably,  and  had  then  stood  looking  at  me.  The  words, 
"  Pretty  fellow,"  or,  "  Poor  fellow,"  seemed  to  be  in  my  ears, 
too;  but  certainly  there  was  nothing  else,  when  I  awoke,  to 
lead  me  to  believe  that  they  had  been  uttered  by  my  aunt, 
who  sat  in  the  bow-window  gazing  at  the  sea  foam  from  be- 
hind the  green  fan,  which  was  mounted  on  a  kind  of  swivel, 
and  turned  any  way. 

We  dined  soon  after  I  awoke,  off  a  roast  fowl  and  a  pud- 
ding; I  sitting  at  table,  not  unlike  a  trussed  bird  myself, 
and  moving  my  arms  with  considerable  difficulty.  But  as 
my  aunt  had  swathed  me  up,  I  made  no  complaint  of  being 
inconvenienced.  All  this  time,  I  was  deeply  anxious  to 
know  what  she  was  going  to  do  with  me;  but  she  took  her 
dinner  in  profound  silence,  except  when  she  occasionally 
fixed  her  eyes  on  me  sitting  opposite,  and  said,  "  Mercy  up- 
on us!"  which  did  not  by  any  means  relieve  my  anxiety. 

The  cloth  being  drawn,  and  some  sherry  put  upon  the 
table  (of  which  I  had  a  glass),  my  aunt  sent  up  for  Mr.  Dick 
again,  who  joined  us,  and  looked  as  wise  as  he  could  when 
she  requested  him  to  attend  to  my  story,  which  she  elicited 
from  me,  gradually,  by  a  course  of  questions.  During  my 
recital,  she  kept  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Dick,  who  I  thought  would 
have  gone  to  sleep  but  for  that,  and  who,  whensoever  he 
lapsed  into  a  smile,  was  checked  by  a  frown  from  my  aunt. 

"  Whatever  possessed  that  poor  unfortunate  Baby,  that 
she  must  go  and  be  married  again,"  said  my  aunt,  when  I 
had  finished,  "/  can't  conceive." 

"  Perhaps  she  fell  in  love  with  her  second  husband,"  Mr. 
Dick  suggested. 

*'  Fell  in  love!"  repeated  my  aunt.  *'  What  do  you  mean  ? 
What  business  had  she  to  do  it  ?" 

*'  Perhaps,"  Mr.  Dick  simpered,  after  thinking  a  Httle, 
**  she  did  it  for  pleasure." 

"  Pleasure,  indeed,"  replied  my  aunt.  *' A  mighty  pleas- 
ure for  the  poor  baby  to  fix  her  simple  faith  upon  any  dog 
of  a  fellowj  certain  to  ill-use  her  in  some  way  or  other.  What 


igS  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

did  she  propose  to  do  herself,  I  should  like  to  know!  She 
had  had  one  husband.  She  had  seen  David  Copperfield  out 
of  the  world,  who  was  always  running  after  wax  dolls  from 
his  cradle.  She  had  got  a  baby — oh,  there  were  a  pair  of 
babies  when  she  gave  birth  to  this  child  sitting  here,  that 
Friday  night! — and  what  more  did  she  want?" 

Mr.  Dick  secretly  shook  his  head  at  me,  as  if  he  thought 
there  was  no  getting  over  this. 

"  She  couldn't  even  have  a  baby  like  anybody  else," 
said  my  aunt.  "  Where  was  this  child's  sister,  Betsey  Trot- 
wood  !     Not  forthcoming.     Don't  tell  me!" 

Mr.  Dick  seemed  quite  frightened. 

"  That  little  man  of  a  doctor,  with  his  head  on  one  side," 
said  my  aunt,  *'  Jellips,  or  whatever  his  name  was,  what  was 
he  about  ?  All  he  could  do,  was  to  say  to  me,  like  a  robin- 
redbreast — as  he/> — '  It's  a  boy.'  A  boy!  Yah,  the  imbe- 
cility of  the  whole  set  of  'em!" 

The  heartiness  of  the  ejaculation  startled  Mr.  Dick  ex- 
ceedingly; and  me,  too,  if  I  am  to  tell  the  truth. 

"  And  then,  as  if  this  was  not  enough,  and  she  had  not 
stood  sufficiently  in  the  light  of  this  child's  sister,  Betsey 
Trotwood,"  said  my  aunt,  "  she  marries  a  second  time — 
goes  and  marries  a  Murderer — or  a  man  with  a  name  like  it 
--and  stands  in  this  child's  light!  And  the  natural  conse- 
quence is,  as  anybody  but  a  b.^by  might  have  foreseen,  that 
he  prowls  and  wanders.  He's  as  like  Cain  before  he  was 
grown  up,  as  he  can  be." 

Mr.  Dick  looked  hard  at  me,  as  if  to  identify  me  in  this 
character. 

"  And  then  there's  that  woman  with  the  Pagan  name," 
said  my  aunt,  "  that  Peggotty,  she  goes  and  gets  married 
next.  Because  she  has  not  seen  enough  of  the  evil  attend- 
ing such  things,  she  goes  and  gets  married  next,  as  the  child 
relates.  I  only  hope,"  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head, 
''  that  her  husband  is  one  of  those  Poker  husbands,  who 
abound  in  the  newspapers,  and  will  beat  her  well  with  one." 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  old  nurse  so  decried,  and 
made  the  subject  of  such  a  wish.  I  told  my  aunt  that  in- 
deed she  was  mistaken.  That  Peggotty  was  the  best,  the 
truest,  the  most  faithful,  most  devoted,  and  most  self-deny- 
ing friend  and  servant  in  the  world;  who  had  ever  loved  me 
dearly,  who  had  ever  loved  my  mother  dearly;  who  had  held 
my  dying  mother's  head  upon  her  arm,  on  whose  face  my 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  199 

mother  had  imprinted  her  last  grateful  kiss.  And  the  re- 
membrance of  them  both,  choking  me,  I  broke  down  as  I 
was  trying  to  say  that  her  home  was  my  home,  and  that  all 
she  had  was  mine,  and  that  I  would  have  gone  to  her  for 
shelter,  but  for  her  humble  station,  which  made  me  fear  that 
I  might  bring  some  trouble  on  her — I  broke  down,  I  say,  as 
I  was  trying  to  say  so,  and  laid  my  face  in  my  hands  upon 
the  table. 

"Wellj  well,"  said  my  aunt,  "the  child  is  right  to  stand 
by  those  who  have  stood  by  him — Janet  !  Donkeys  !  " 

I  thoroughly  believe  that  but  for  those  unfortunate  don- 
keys, we  should  have  come  to  a  good  understanding ;  for 
my  aunt  had  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  the  impulse 
was  upon  me,  thus  emboldened,  to  embrace  her  and  beseech 
her  protection.  But  the  interruption,  and  the  disorder  she 
was  thrown  into  by  the  struggle  outside,  put  an  end  to  all 
softer  ideas  for  the  present;  and  kept  my  aunt  indignantly 
declaiming  to  Mr.  Dick  about  her  determination  to  appeal 
for  redress  to  the  laws  of  her  country,  and  to  bring  actions 
for  trespass  against  the  whole  donkey  proprietorship  of  Do- 
ver, until  tea-time. 

After  tea,  we  sat  at  the  window — on  the  look-out,  as  I 
imagined  from  my  aunt's  sharp  expression  of  face,  for  more 
invaders — until  dusk,  when  Janet  set  candles,  and  a  back- 
gammon-board, on  the  table,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds. 

''  Now,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  with  her  grave  look,  and 
her  fore-finger  up  as  before,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  another 
question.     Look  at  this  child." 

"  David's  son  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  attentive,  puzzled 
face. 

"  Exactly  so,"  returned  my  aunt.  *'  What  would  you  do 
with  him,  now  ?" 

"  Do  with  David's  son  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

*'  Aye,"  replied  my  aunt,  "with  David's  son.** 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Dick.  "Yes.  Do  with— I  should  put 
him  to  bed." 

"  Janet!"  cried  my  aunt,  with  the  same  complacent  triumph 
that  I  had  remarked  before.  "  Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right. 
If  the  bed  is  ready,  we'll  take  him  up  to  it." 

Janet  reporting  it  to  be  quite  ready,  I  was  taken  up  to  it, 
kindly,  but  in  some  sort  like  a  prisoner;  my  aunt  going  in 
front  and  Janet  bringing  up  the  rear.  The  only  circum- 
stance which  gave  me  any  new  hope,  was  my  aunt's  stopping 


200  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

on  the  stairs  to  inquire  about  a  smell  of  fire  that  was  preva- 
lent there;  and  Janet's  replying  that  she  had  been  making 
tinder  down  in  the  kitchen,  of  my  old  shirt.  But  there 
were  no  other  clothes  in  my  room  than  the  old  heap  of 
things  I  wore;  and  when  I  was  left  there,  with  a  little  taper 
which  my  aunt  forewarned  me  would  burn  exactly  five  min- 
utes, I  heard  them  lock  my  door  on  the  outside.  Turning?: 
these  things  over  in  my  mind,  I  deemed  it  possible  that 
my  aunt,  who  could  know  nothing  of  me,  might  suspect 
I  had  a  habit  of  running  away,  and  took  precautions,  on 
that  account,  to  have  me  in  safe  keeping. 

The  room  was  a  pleasant  one,  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
overlooking  the  sea,  on  which  the  moon  was  shining  bril- 
liantly. After  I  had  said  my  prayers,  and  the  candle  had 
burnt  out,  I  remember  how  I  still  sat  looking  at  the  moon- 
light on  the  water,  as  if  I  could  hope  to  read  my  fortune 
in  it,  as  in  a  bright  book;  or  to  see  my  mother  with  her 
child,  coming  from  Heaven,  along  that  shining  path,  to  look 
upon  me  as  she  had  looked  when  I  last  saw  her  sweet  face. 
I  remember  how  the  solemn  feeling  with  which  at  length 
I  turned  my  eyes  away,  yielded  to  the  sensation  of  gratitude 
and  rest  which  the  sight  of  the  white-curtained  bed — and 
how  much  more  the  lying  down  upon  it,  nestling  in  the 
snow-white  sheets  ? — inspired.  I  remember  how  I  thought 
of  all  the  solitary  places  under  the  night  sky  where  I  had 
slept,  and  how  I  prayed  that  I  never  might  be  houseless  any 
more,  and  never  might  forget  the  houseless.  I  remember 
how  I  seemed  to  float,  then,  down  the  melancholy  glory  of 
that  track  upon  the  sea,  away  into  the  world  of  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY  AUNT  MAKES  tJP  HER  MIND  ABOUT  ME. 

On  going  down  in  the  morning,  I  found  my  aunt  musing 
so  profoundly  over  the  breakfast-table,  with  her  elbow  on 
the  tray,  that  the  contents  of  the  urn  had  overflowed  the 
teapot  and  were  laying  the  whole  table-cloth  under  water, 
when  my  entrance  put  her  meditations  to  flight.  I  felt  sure 
that  I  had  been  the  subject  of  her  reflections,  and  was  more 
than  ever  anxious  to  know  her  intentions  towards  me.  Yet 
I  dared  not  express  my  anxiety,  lest  it  should  give  her 
offense. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  toi 

My  eyes,  however,  not  being  so  much  under  control  as 
my  tongue,  were  attracted  towards  my  aunt  very  often 
during  breakfast.  I  never  could  look  at  her  but  a  few 
moments  together  but  I  found  her  looking  at  me — in  an 
odd,  thoughtful  manner,  as  if  I  were  an  immense  way  off, 
instead  of  being  on  the  other  side  of  the  small  round  table. 
When  she  had  finished  her  breakfast,  my  aunt  very  deliber- 
ately leaned  back  in  her  chair,  knitted  her  brows,  folded 
her  arms,  and  contemplated  me  at  her  leisure,  with  such  a 
fixedness  of  attention  that  I  was  quite  overpowered  by 
embarrassment.  Not  having  as  yet  finished  my  own  break- 
fast, I  attempted  to  hide  my  confusion  by  proceeding  with 
it;  but  my  knife  tumbled  over  my  fork,  my  fork  tripped 
up  my  knife,  I  chipped  bits  of  bacon  a  surprising  height 
into  the  air  instead  of  cutting  them  for  my  own  eating,  and 
choked  myself  with  my  tea,  which  persisted  in  going  the 
wrong  way  instead  of  the  right  one,  until  I  gave  in  alto- 
gether, and  sat  blushing  under  my  aunt's  close  scrutiny. 

"Hallo!"  said  my  aunt,  after  a  long  time. 

I  looked  up,  and  met  her  sharp  bright  glance  respectfully. 

"  I  have  written  to  him,"  said  my  auntv 

"  To—?" 

"  To  your  father-in-law,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  have  sent 
him  a  letter  that  I'll  trouble  him  to  attend  to,  or  he  and  I 
will  fall  out,  I  can  tell  him!" 

"  Does  he  know  where  I  am,  aunt  ?"  I  inquired,  alarmed. 

"  I  have  told  him,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  nod. 

"  Shall  I — be — given  up  to  him  ?"  I  faltered. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  my  aunt.     "  We  shall  see." 

"  Oh!  I  can't  think  what  I  shall  do,"  I  exclaimed,  "  if  I 
have  to  go  back  to  Mr.  Murdstone!" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  my  aunt,  shaking 
her  head.     "  I  can't  say,  I'm  sure.     We  shall  see." 

My  spirits  sank  under  these  words,  and  I  became  very 
downcast  and  heavy  of  heart.  My  aunt,  without  appearing 
to  take  much  heed  of  me,  put  on  a  coarse  apron  with  a  bib, 
which  she  took  out  of  the  press;  washed  up  the  teacups  with 
her  own  hands;  and,  when  everything  was  washed  and  set 
in  the  tray  again,  and  the  cloth  folded  and  put  on  the  top 
of  the  whole,  rang  for  Janet  to  remove  it.  She  next  swept 
up  the  crumbs  with  a  little  broom  (putting  on  a  pair 
of  gloves  first),  until  there  did  not  appear  to  be  one  micro- 
scopic speck  left  on  the  carpet;  next  dusted  and  arranged 


202  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

the  room,  which  was  dusted  and  arranged  to  a  hair's  breadth 
already.  When  all  these  tasks  were  performed  to  her  satis- 
faction, she  took  off  the  gloves  and  apron,  folded  them  up, 
put  them  in  the  particular  corner  of  the  press  from  which 
they  had  been  taken,  brought  out  her  work-box  to  her  own 
table  in  the  open  window,  and  sat  down,  with  the  green  fan 
between  her  and  the  light,  to  work. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  up  stairs,"  said  my  aunt,  as  she 
threaded  her  needle,  "  and  give  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dick, 
and  I'll  be  glad  to  know  how  he  gets  on  with  his  Memorial." 

I  rose  with  alacrity  to  acquit  myself  of  this  commission. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  my  aunt,  eyeing  me  as  narrowly  as  she 
had  eyed  the  needle  in  threading  it,  "  you  think  Mr.  Dick  a 
short  name,  eh  ?" 

**  I  thought  it  was  rather  a  short  name,  yesterday,"  I  con- 
fessed. 

"  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  he  hasn't  got  a  longer 
name,  if  he  chose  to  use  it,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  loftier 
air.  "  Babley — Mr.  Richard  Babley — that's  the  gentleman's 
true  name." 

I  was  going  to  suggest,  with  a  modest  sense  of  my  youth 
and  the  familiarity  I  had  been  already  guilty  of,  that  I  had 
better  give  him  the  full  benefit  of  that  name,  when  my  aunt 
went  on  to  say: 

"  But  don't  you  call  him  by  it,  whatever  you  do.  He 
can't  bear  his  name.  That's  a  peculiarity  of  his.  Though 
I  don't  know  that  it's  much  of  a  peculiarity,  either;  for 
he  has  been  ill-used  enough  by  some  that  bear  it,  to  have 
a  mortal  antipathy  for  it,  Heaven  knows.  Mr.  Dick  is  his 
name  here,  and  everywhere  else,  now — if  he  ever  went  any- 
where else,  which  he  don't.  So  take  care,  child,  you  don't 
call  him  anything  else  ^u^  Mr.  Dick." 

I  promised  to  obey,  and  went  up-stairs  with  my  mes- 
sage; thinking,  as  I  went,  that  if  Mr.  Dick  had  been  work- 
ing at  his  Memorial  long,  at  the  same  rate  as  I  had  seen 
him  working  at  it,  through  the  open  door,  when  I  came 
down,  he  was  probably  getting  on  very  well  indeed.  I 
found  him  still  driving  at  it  with  a  long  pen,  and  his  head 
almost  laid  upon  the  paper.  He  was  so  intent  upon  it, 
that  I  had  ample  leisure  to  observe  the  large  paper  kite 
in  the  corner,  the  confusion  of  bundles  of  manuscript,  the 
number  of  pens  and,  above  all,  the  quantity  of  ink  (which 
he  seemed  to  have  in,  in  half-gallon  jars  by  the  dozen),  be- 
fore he  observed  mv  being  present. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  203 

"Ha!  Phoebus!"  said  Mr.  Dick,  laying  down  his  pen. 
'*  How  does  the  world  go  ?  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone,  "  I  shouldn't  wish  it  to  be  mentioned,  but  it's 
a — "  here  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  put  his  lips  close  to  my 
ear — "it's  a  mad  world.  Mad  as  Bedlam,  boy!"  said  Mr. 
Dick,  taking  snuff  from  a  round  box  on  the  table,  and 
laughing  heartily. 

Without  presuming  to  give  my  opinion  on  this  question, 
I  delivered  my  message. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  in  answer,  "  my  compliments  to 
her,  and  I — I  believe  I  have  made  a  start.  I  think  I  have 
made  a  start,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  passing  his  hand  among  his 
gray  hair,  and  casting  anything  but  a  confident  look  at  his 
manuscript.     "  You  have  been  to  school  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,'^  I  answered,  "for  a  short  time." 

"  Do  you  recollect  the  date,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  looking  earn- 
estly at  me,  and  taking  up  his  pen  to  note  it  down,  "  when 
King  Charles  the  First  had  his  head  cut  off  ?" 

I  said  I  believed  it  happened  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred 
and  forty-nine. 

"Well,"  returned  Mr.  Dick,  scratching  his  ear  with  his 
pen  and  looking  dubiously  at  me.  "  So  the  books  say,  but 
I  don't  see  how  that  can  be.  Because,  if  it  was  so  long  ago, 
how  could  the  people  about  him  have  made  that  mistake  of 
putting  some  of  the  trouble  out  of  his  head,  after  it  was 
taken  off,  into  mi7ief' 

I  was  very  much  surprised  by  the  inquiry;  but  could  give 
no  information  on  this  point. 

"  It's  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  a  despondent  look 
upon  his  papers,  and  with  his  hand  among  his  hair  again, 
"  that  I  never  can  get  that  quite  right.  I  never  can  make 
that  perfectly  clear.  But  no  matter,  no  matter  !"  he  said 
cheerfully,  and  rousing  himself,  "  there's  time  enough.  My 
compliments  to  Miss  Trotwood,  I  am  getting  on  very  well 
indeed." 

I  was  going  away,  when  he  directed  my  attention  to  the  kite. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  kite  ?"  he  said. 

I  answered  that  it  was  a  beautiful  one.  I  should  think  it 
must  have  been  as  much  as  seven  feet  high. 

"  I  made  it.  We'll  go  and  fly  it,  you  and  I,"  said  Mr. 
Dick.     "  Do  you  see  this  ?" 

He  showed  me  that  it  was  covered  with  manuscript,  ver]? 
closely  and   laboriously  written;  but  so  plainly,  that  as    I 


204  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

looked  along  the  lines,  I  thought  I  saw  some  allusion  to 
King  Charles  the  First's  head  again,  in  one  or  two  places. 

"There's  plenty  of  string,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "and  when  it 
flies  high,  it  takes  the  facts  a  long  way.  That's  my  manner 
of  diffusing  'em,  I  don't  know  where  they  may  come  down. 
It's  according  to  circumstances,  and  the  wind,  and  so  forth; 
but  I  take  my  chance  of  that." 

His  face  was  so  very  mild  and  pleasant,  and  had  some- 
thing so  reverend  in  it,  though  it  was  hale  and  hearty,  that 
I  was  not  sure  but  that  he  was  having  a  good  humored  jest 
with  me.  So  I  laughed,  and  he  laughed,  and  we  parted  the 
best  friends  possible. 

"Well,  child,"  said  my  aunt,  when  I  went  down  stairs. 
"  And  what  of  Mr.  Dick,  this  morning  ?" 

I  informed  her  that  he  sent  his  compliments,  and  was  get- 
ting on  very  well  indeed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

I  had  some  shadowy  idea  of  endeavoring  to  evade  the  ques- 
tion, by  replying  that  I  thought  him  a  very  nice  gentleman- 
but  my  aunt  was  not  to  be  so  put  off,  for  she  laid  her  work 
down  in  her  lap,  and  said,  folding  her  hands  upon  it: 

"  Come  !  Your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood  would  have  told 
me  what  she  thought  of  any  one,  directly.  Be  as  like  your 
sister  as  you  can,  and  speak  out  !" 

"Is  he — is  Mr.  Dick — I  ask  because  I  don't  know,  aunt 
—is  he  at  all  out  of  his  mind,  then  ?"  I  stammered;  for  I  felt 
I  was  on  dangerous  ground. 

"  Not  a  morsel,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  I  observed  faintly. 

"  If  there  is  anything  in  the  world,"  ^said  my  aunt,  with 
great  decision  and  force  of  manner,  "  that  Mr.  Dick  is  not, 
it's  that." 

I  had  nothing  better  to  offer,  than  another  timid  "  Oh, 
indeed  !" 

"  He  has  been  called  mad,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  have  a 
selfish  pleasure  in  saying  he  has  been  called  mad,  or  I  should 
not  have  had  the  benefit  of  his  society  and  advice  for  these 
last  ten  years  and  upwards — in  fact,  ever  since  your  sister, 
Betsey  Trotwood,  disappointed  me." 

"  So  long  as  that  ?"  I  said. 

"  And  nice  people  they  were,  who  had  the  audacity  to  call 
him  mad,"  pursued  my  aunt.  "  Mr.  Dick  is  a  sort  of  distant 
connexion  of  mine— -it  doesn't  matter  how;  I  needn't  enter 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  205 

into  that.  If  it  hadii't  been  for  me,  his  own  brother  would 
have  shut  him  up  for  life.     That's  all." 

I  am  afraid  it  was  hypocritical  in  me,  but  seeing  that  my 
aunt  felt  strongly  on  the  subject,  I  tried  to  look  as  if  I  felt 
strongly  too. 

"  A  proud  fool !"  said  my  aunt.  "  Because  his  brother  was  a 
little  eccentric — though  he  is  not  half  so  eccentric  as  a  good 
many  people — he  didn't  like  to  have  him  visible  about  the 
house,and  sent  him  away  to  some  private  asylum-place;  though 
he  had  been  left  to  his  particular  care  by  their  deceased  father, 
who  thought  him  almost  a  natural.  And  a  wise  man  he  must 
have  been  to  think  so  !      Mad  himself,  no  doubt." 

Again,  as  my  aunt  looked  quite  convinced,  I  endeavored 
to  look  quite  convinced  also. 

"  So  I  stepped  in,"  said  my  aunt,  "and  made  him  an  of- 
fer. I  said,  Your  brother's  sane — a  great  deal  more  sane 
than  you  are,  or  ever  will  be,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  Let  him 
have  his  little  income,  and  come  and  live  with  me.  /  am 
not  afraid  of  him,  /  am  not  proud,  /  am  ready  to  take  care 
of  him,  and  shall  not  ill-treat  him  as  some  people  (besides 
the  asylum  folks)  have  done.  After  a  good  deal  of  squab- 
bling," said  my  aunt,  "  I  got  him;  and  he  has  been  here 
ever  since.  He  is  the  most  friendly  and  amenable  creature 
in  existence;  and  as  for  advice! — but  nobody  knows  what 
that  man's  mind  is,  except  myself." 

My  aunt  smoothed  her  dress  and  shook  her  head,  as  if 
she  smoothed  defiance  of  the  whole  world  out  of  the  one, 
and  shook  it  out  of  the  other. 

"  He  had  a  favorite  sister,"  said  my  aunt,  "  a  good  crea- 
ture, and  very  kind  to  him.  But  she  did  what  they  all  do — 
took  a  husband.  And  he  did  what  they  all  do — made  her 
wretched.  It  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Dick  {Jhat's  not  madness  I  hope!)  that,  combined  with  his 
fear  of  his  brother,  and  his  sense  of  his  unkindness,  it  threw 
him  into  a  fever.  That  was  before  he  came  to  me,  but  the 
recollection  of  it  is  oppressive  to  him  even  now.  Did  he 
say  anything  to  you  about  King  Charles  the  First,  child  ?" 

"Yes,  aunt." 

"Ah!"  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose  as  if  she  were  a 
little  vexed.  "  That's  his  allegorical  way  of  expressing  it. 
He  connects  his  illness  with  great  disturbance  and  agitation, 
naturally,  and  that's  the  figure,  the  simile,  or  whatever  it's 
called,  which  he  chooses  to  use.  And  why  shouldn't  he,  if 
he  thinks  proper!" 


206  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  said:  "  Certainly,  aunt." 

"  It's  not  a  business-like  way  of  speaking,"  said  my  aunt, 
*' nor  a  worldly  way.  I  am  aware  of  that;  and  that's  the 
reason  why  I  insist  upon  it,  that  there  shan't  be  a  word 
about  it  in  his  Memorial." 

'*  Is  it  a  Memorial  about  his  own  history  that  he  is  writ- 
ing, aunt?" 

"  Yes,  child,"  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose  again.  ^*  He 
is  memorializing  the  Lord  Chancellor,  or  the  Lord  Some- 
body or  other — one  of  those  people,  at  all  events,  who  are 
paid  to  he  memorialized — about  his  affairs.  I  suppose  it 
will  go  in,  one  of  these  days.  He  hasn't  been  able  to  draw 
it  up  yet,  without  introducing  that  mode  of  expressing  him- 
self; but  it  don't  signify;  it  keeps  him  employed." 

In  fact,  I  found  out  afterwards  that  Mr.  Dick  had  been 
for  upwards  of  ten  years  endeavoring  to  keep  King  Charles 
the  First  out  of  the  Memorial;  but  he  had  constantly  been 
getting  into  it,  and  was  there  now. 

"  I  say  again,"  said  my  aunt,  "  nobody  knows  what  that 
man's  mind  is  except  myself;  and  he's  the  most  amenable 
and  friendly  creature  in  existence.  If  he  likes  to  fly  a  kite 
sometimes,  what  of  that!  Franklin  used  to  fly  a  kite.  He 
was  a  Quaker,  or  something  of  that  sort,  if  I  am  not  mistak- 
en. And  a  Quaker  flying  a  kite  is  a  much  more  ridiculous 
object  than  any  body  else." 

If  I  could  have  supposed  that  my  aunt  had  recounted 
these  particulars  for  my  especial  behoof,  and  as  a  piece  of 
confidence  in  me,  I  should  have  felt  very  much  distin- 
guished, and  should  have  augured  favorably  from  such  a 
mark  of  her  good  opinion.  But  I  could  hardly  help  observ- 
ing that  she  had  launched  into  them,  chiefly  because  the 
question  was  raised  in  her  own  mind,  and  with  very  little 
reference  to  me,  though  she  had  addressed  herself  to  me  in 
the  absence  of  anybody  else. 

At  the  same  time,  I  must  say  that  the  generosity  of  her 
championship  of  poor  harmless  Mr.  Dick,  not  only  inspired 
my  young  breast  with  some  selfish  hope  for  myself,  but 
warmed  it  unselfishly  towards  her.  I  believe  I  began  to 
know  that  there  was  something  about  my  aunt,  notwith- 
standing her  many  eccentricities  and  odd  humors,  to  be 
honored  and  trusted  in.  Though  she  was  just  as  sharp 
that  day,  as  on  the  day  before,  and  was  in  and  out  about 
the  donkeys  just  as  often,  and  was  thrown  into  a  tremen- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ,207 

dous  state  of  indignation,  when  a  young  man,  going  by, 
ogled  Janet  at  a  window  (which  was  one  of  the  gravest  mis- 
demeanors that  could  be  committed  against  my  aunt's  dig- 
nity), she  seemed  to  me  to  command  more  of  my  respect,  if 
not  less  of  my  fear. 

The  anxiety  I  underwent,  in  the  interval  which  necessari- 
ly elapsed  before  a  reply  could  be  received  to  her  letter  to 
Mr.  Murdstone,  was  extreme;  but  I  made  an  endeavor  to 
suppress  it,  and  to  be  as  agreeable  as  I  could  in  a  quiet  way, 
both  to  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick.  The  latter  and  I  would 
have  gone  out  to  fly  the  great  kite;  but  that  I  had  still  no 
other  clothes  than  the  anything  but  ornamental  garments 
with  which  I  had  been  decorated  on  the  first  day,  and 
which  confined  me  to  the  house,  except  for  an  hour  after 
dark,  when  my  aunt,  for  my  health's  sake,  paraded  me  up 
and  down  on  the  cliff  outside,  before  going  to  bed.  At 
length  the  reply  from  Mr.  Murdstone  came,  and  my  aunt 
informed  me,  to  my  infinite  terror,  that  he  was  coming  to 
speak  to  her  himself  on  the  next  day.  On  the  next  day, 
still  bundled  up  in  my  curious  habiliments,  I  sat  counting 
the  time,  flushed  and  heated  by  the  conflict  of  sinking  hopes 
and  rising  fears  within  me;  and  waiting  to  be  startled  by 
the  sight  of  the  gloomy  face,  whose  non-arrival  startled  me 
every  minute. 

My  aunt  was  a  little  more  imperious  and  stern  than  usual, 
but  I  observed  no  other  token  of  her  preparing  to  receive 
the  visitor  so  much  dreaded  by  me.  She  sat  at  work  in  the 
window,  and  I  sat  by,  with  my  thoughts  running  astray  on 
all  possible  and  impossible  results  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  visit, 
until  pretty  late  in  the  afternoon.  Our  dinner  had  been  in- 
definitely postponed  ;  but  it  was  growing  so  late,  that  my 
aunt  had  ordered  it  to  be  got  ready,  when  she  gave  a  sudden 
alarm  of  donkeys,  and  to  my  consternation  and  amaze- 
ment, I  beheld  Miss  Murdstone,  on  a  side-saddle,  ride  delib- 
erately over  the  sacred  piece  of  green,  and  stop  in  front  of 
the  house,  looking  about  her. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !"  cried  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head  and 
her  fist  at  the  window.  "  You  have  no  business  there.  How 
dare  you  trespass  ?     Go  along  !     Oh,  you  bold-faced  thing  !" 

My  aunt  was  so  exasperated  by  the  coolness  with  which 
Miss  Murdstone  looked  about  her,  that  I  really  believe  she 
was  motionless,  and  unable  for  the  moment  to  dart  out  ac- 
cording to  custom.     I  seized  the  opportunity  to  inform  her 


2o8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

who  it  was  ;  and  that  the  gentleman  now  coming  near  the 
offender  (for  the  way  up  was  very  steep,  and  he  had  dropped 
behind),  was  Mr.  Murdstone  himself. 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  is  !"  cried  my  aunt,  still  shaking  her 
head,  and  gesticulating  anything  but  welcome  from  the  bow- 
window.  "  I  won't  be  trespassed  upon.  I  'won't  allow  it. 
Go  away  !  Janet,  turn  him  round.  Lead  him  off !"  and  I 
saw,  from  behind  my  aunt,  a  sort  of  hurried  battle-piece,  in 
which  the  donkey  stood  resisting  everybody,  with  all  his  four 
legs  planted  different  ways,  while  Janet  tried  to  pull  him 
round  by  the  bridle,  Mr.  Murdstone  tried  to  lead  him  on. 
Miss  Murdstone  struck  at  Janet  with  a  parasol,  and  several 
boys  who  had  come  to  see  the  engagement,  shouted  vigor- 
ously. But  my  aunt,  suddenly  descrying  among  them  the 
young  malefactor  who  was  the  donkey's  guardian,  and  who 
was  one  of  the  most  inveterate  offenders  against  her,  though 
hardly  in  his  teens,  rushed  out  to  the  scene  of  action, 
pounced  upon  him,  captured  him,  dragged  him,  with  his 
jacket  over  his  head,  and  his  heels  grinding  the  ground,  into 
the  garden,  and,  calling  upon  Janet  to  fetch  the  constables 
and  justices  that  he  might  be  taken,  tried,  and  executed  on 
the  spot,  held  him  at  bay  there.  This  part  of  the  business, 
however,  did  not  last  long ;  for  the  young  rascal,  being  ex- 
pert at  a  variety  of  feints  and  dodges,  of  which  my  aunt 
had  no  conception,  soon  went  whooping  away,  leaving  some 
deep  impressions  of  his  nailed  boots  in  the  flower-beds,  and 
taking  his  donkey  in  triumph  with  him. 

Miss  Murdstone,  during  the  latter  portion  of  the  contest, 
had  dismounted,  and  was  now  waiting  with  h^r  brother  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps,  until  my  aunt  should  be  at  leisure 
to  receive  them.  My  aunt,  a  little  ruffled  by  the  combat, 
marched  past  them  into  the  house,  with  great  dignity,  and 
took  no  notice  of  their  presence,  until  they  were  announced 
by  Janet. 

*'  Shall  I  go  away,  aunt  ?"  I  asked,  trembling. 

*'  No,  sir,"  said  my  aunt.  "  Certainly  not."  With  which 
she  pushed  me  into  a  corner  near  her,  and  fenced  me  in  with 
a  chair,  as  if  it  were  a  prison  or  a  bar  of  justice.  This  po- 
sition I  continued  to  occupy  during  the  whole  interview, 
and  from  it  I  now  saw  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  enter  the 
room. 

**  Oh  !"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  was  not  aware  at  first  to  whom 
1  had  the  pleasure  of  objecting.     But  I  don't  allow  anybody 


^~tK  ^ 


v.,.-^.^- 

♦*  1^^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  209 

to  ride  over  that  turf.     I  make  no  exceptions.     I  don't  allow 
anybody  to  do  it." 

"Your  regulation  is  rather  awkward  to  strangers,"  said 
Miss  Murdstone. 

"  Is  it  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Murdstone  seemed  afraid  of  a  renewal  of  hostilities, 
and  interposing  began  : 

"  Miss  Trotwood  I" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  my  aunt  with  a  keen  look. 
"  You  are  the  Mr.  Murdstone  who  married  the  widow  of  my 
late  nephew,  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunderstone  Rookery  ? 
— Though  why  Rookery,  /  don't  know  !"         ^ ^.-,.^ 

"  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"  You'll  excuse  my  saying,  sir,"  returned  my  aunt,  "  thai" 
I  think  it  would  have  been  a  much  better  and  happier  thing 
if  you  had  left  that  poor  child  alone." 

"  I  so  far  agree  with  what  Miss  Trotwood  has  remarked," 
observed  Miss  Murdstone,  bridling,  "  that  I  consider  our 
lamented  Clara  to  have  been,  in  all  essential  respects,  a  mere 
child." 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  you  and  tome,  ma'am,"  said  my  aunt, 
"  who  are  getting  on  in  life,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  made 
unhappy  by  our  personal  attractions,  that  nobody  can  say 
the  same  of  us." 

**  No  doubt !"  returned  Miss  Murdstone,  though,  I  thought, 
not  with  a  very  ready  or  gracious  assent.  '*  And  it  certainly 
might  have  been,  as  you  say,  a  better  and  happier  thing  for 
my  brother  if  he  had  never  entered  into  such  a  marriage.  I 
have  always  been  of  that  opinion." 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  have,"  said  my  aunt.  "Janet," 
ringing  the  bell,  *'  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dick,  and  beg  him 
to  come  down." 

Until  he  came,  my  aunt  sat  perfectly  upright  and  stiff, 
frowning  at  the  wall.  When  he  came,  my  aunt  performed  the 
ceremony  of  introduction. 

"  Mr.  Dick.  An  old  and  intimate  friend.  On  whose  judg- 
ment," said  my  aunt,  with  emphasis,  as  an  admonition  to 
Mr.  Dick,  who  was  biting  his  forefinger  and  looking  rather 
foolish,  "  I  rely." 

Mr.  Dick  took  his  finger  out  of  his  mouth,  on  this  hint, 
and  stood  among  the  group,  with  a  grave  and  attentive  ex- 
pression of  face.  My  aunt  inclined  her  head  to  Mr.  Murd- 
stone, who  went  on; 


zio  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  Miss  Trotwood:  on  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  consid- 
ered it  an  act  of  greater  justice  to  myself,  and  perhaps  of 
more  respect  to  you — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  my  aunt,  still  eyeing  him  keenly. 
"  You  needn't  mind  me." 

"  To  answer  it  in  person,  however  inconvenient  the  jour- 
ney," pursued  Mr.  Murdstone,  "  rather  than  by  letter.  This 
unhappy  boy  who  has  run  away  from  his  friends  and  his  oc- 
cupation— " 

"  And  whose  appearance,"  interposed  his  sister,  directing 
general  attention  to  me  in  my  indefinable  costume,  "  is  per- 
fectly scandalous  and  disgraceful." 

"  Jane  Murdstone,"  said  her  brother,  "  have  the  goodness 
not  to  interrupt  me.  This  unhappy  boy,  Miss  Trotwood, 
has  been  the  occasion  of  much  domestic  trouble  and  uneasi- 
ness both  during  the  lifetime  of  my  late  dear  wife,  and  since. 
He  has  a  sullen,  rebelHous  spirit;  a  violent  temper;  and  an 
untoward,  intractable  disposition.  Both  my  sister  and  my- 
self endeavored  to  correct  his  vices,  but  ineffectually.  And 
I  have  felt — we  both  have  felt,  I  may  say,  my  sister  being 
fully  in  my  confidence — that  it  is  right  you  should  receive 
this  grave  and  dispassionate  assurance  from  our  lips." 

"  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  for  me  to  confirm  anything 
stated  by  my  brother,"  said  Miss  Murdstone;  "  but  I  beg  to 
observe  that,  of  all  the  boys  in  the  world,  I  believe  this  is 
the  worst  boy." 

"  Strong  !"  said  my  aunt,  shortly. 

"  But  not  at  all  too  strong  for  the  facts,"  returned  Miss 
Murdstone. 

*'  Ha  !"  said  my  aunt.     "  Well,  sir  ?" 

"  I  have  my  own  opinions,"  resumed  Mr.  Murdstone, 
whose  face  darkened  more  and  more,  the  more  he  and  my 
aunt  observed  each  other,  which  they  did  very  narrowly,  *'  as 
to  the  best  mode  of  bringing  him  up;  they  are  founded,  in 
part,  on  my  knowledge  of  him,  and  in  part  on  my  knowledge 
of  my  own  means  and  resources.  I  am  responsible  for  them 
to  myself,  I  act  upon  them,  and  I  say  no  more  about  them. 
It  is  enough  that  I  place  this  boy  under  the  eye  of  a  friend 
of  my  own,  in  a  respectable  business;  that  it  does  not  please 
him;  that  he  runs  away  from  it;  makes  himself  a  common 
vagabond  about  the  country;  and  comes  here,  in  rags,  to  ap- 
peal to  you.  Miss  Trotwood.  I  wish  to  set  before  you,  hon- 
orably, the  exact  consequences — so  far  as  they  are  within 
my  knowledge — of  your  abetting  hinci  in  this  appeal." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.        ^  211 

"  But  about  the  respectable  business  first,"  said  my  aunt. 
"  If  he  had  been  your  own  boy,  you  would  have  put  him  to 
it,  just  the  same,  I  suppose  ?" 

*'  If  he  had  been  my  brother's  own  boy,"  returned  Miss 
Murdstone,  striking  in,  "  his  character,  I  trust,  would  have 
been  altogether  different." 

"  Or  if  the  poor  child,  his  mother,  had  been  alive,  he 
would  still  have  gone  into  the  respectable  business,  would 
he  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  with  an  inclination  of 
his  head,  "  that  Clara  would  have  disputed  nothing,  which 
myself  and  my  sister  Jane  Murdstone  were  agreed  was  for 
the  best." 

Miss  Murdstone  confirmed  this,  with  an  audible  murmur. 

*'  Umph  !"  said  my  aunt.     "  Unfortunate  baby." 

Mr.  Dick,  who  had  been  rattling  his  money  all  this  time, 
was  rattling  it  so  loudly  now,  that  my  aunt  felt  it  necessary  to 
check  him  with  a  look,  before  saying: 

"  The  poor  child's  annuity  died  with  her  ?" 

"  Died  with  her,"  replied  Mr.  Murdstone. 

"  And  there  was  no  settlement  of  the  little  property — the 
house  and  garden — the  whafs-its-name  Rookery  without 
any  rooks  in  it — upon  her  boy  ?" 

"  It  had  been  left  to  her,  unconditionally,  by  her  first  hus- 
band," Mr.  Murdstone  began,  when  my  aunt  caught  him  up 
with  the  greatest  irascibility  and  impatience. 

"  Good  Lord,  man,  there's  no  occasion  to  say  that.  Left 
to  her  unconditionally  !  I  think  I  see  David  Copperfield 
looking  forward  to  any  condition  of  any  sort  or  kind,  though 
it  stared  him  point-blank  in  the  face  !  Of  course  it  was  left 
to  her  unconditionally.  But  when  she  married  again — when 
she  took  that  most  disastrous  stepof  marrying  you,  in  short," 
said  my  aunt,  *'  to  be  plain — did  no  one  put  in  a  word  for 
the  boy  at  that  time  ?" 

"  My  late  wife  loved  her  second  husband,  madam,"  said 
Mr.  Murdstone,  "  and  trusted  implicitly  in  him." 

"  Your  late  wife,  sir,  was  a  most  unworldly,  most  unhappy, 
most  unfortunate  baby,"  returned  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head 
at  him.  ''  That's  what  s/ie  was.  And  now,  what  have  you 
got  to  say  next  ?" 

"  Merely  this,  Miss  Trotwood,"  he  returned.  "  I  am  here 
to  take  David  back — to  take  him  back  unconditionally,  to 
dispose  of  him  as  I  think  proper,  and  to  deal  with  him  as  I 


212  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

think  right.  I  am  not  here  to  make  any  promise,  or  to  give 
any  ptedge  to  anybody.  You  may  possibly  have  some  idea, 
Miss  Trotwood,  of  abetting  him  in  his  running  away,  and  in 
his  complaints  to  you.  Your  manner,  which  I  must  say  does 
not  seem  intended  to  propitiate,  induces  me  to  think  it  pos- 
sible. Now  I  must  caution  you  that  if  you  abet  him  once, 
you  abet  him  for  good  and  all;  if  you  step  in  between  him 
and  me  now,  you  must  step  in.  Miss  Trotwood,  for  ever.  I 
cannot  trifle,  or  be  trifled  with.  I  am  here,  for  the  first  and 
last  time,  to  take  him  away.  Is  he  ready  to  go  ?  If  he  is 
not — and  you  tell  me  he  is  not;  on  any  pretense;  it  is  indif- 
ferent to  me  what — my  doors  are  shut  against  him  hence- 
forth, and  yours,  I  take  it  for  granted,  are  open  to  him." 

To  this  address,  my  aunt  had  listened  with  the  closest  at- 
tention, sitting  perfectly  upright,  with  her  hands  folded  on 
one  knee,  and  looking  grimly  on  the  speaker.  When  he  had 
finished,  she  turned  her  eyes  so  as  to  command  Miss  Murd- 
stone,  without  otherwise  disturbing  her  attitude,  and  said; 

"  Well,  ma'am,  haveyou  got  anything  to  remark  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  "  all  that 
I  could  say  has  been  so  well  said  by  my  brother,  and  all  that 
I  know  to  be  the  fact  has  been  so  plainly  stated  by  him,  that 
I  have  nothing  to  add  except  my  thanks  for  your  politeness. 
For  your  very  great  politeness  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Murd- 
stone; with  an  irony  which  no  more  affected  my  aunt,  than 
it  discomposed  the  cannon  I  had  slept  by  in  Chatham. 

"  And  what  does  the  boy  say  ?"  said  my  aunt.  "  Are  you 
ready  to  go,  David  }" 

I  answered  no,  and  entreated  her  not  to  let  me  go.  I  said 
that  neither  Mr.  nor  Miss  Murdstone  had  ever  liked  me, 
or  had  ever  been  kind  to  me.  That  they  had  made  my 
mamma,  who  always  loved  me  dearly,  unhappy  about  me, 
and  that  I  knew  it  well,  and  that  Peggotty  knew  it.  I 
said  that  I  had  been  more  miserable  than  I  thought  any- 
body could  believe,  who  only  knew  how  young  I  was.  And 
I  begged  and  prayed  my  aunt — I  forget  in  what  terms 
now,  but  I  remember  they  affected  me  very  much  then — to 
befriend  and  protect  me,  for  my  father's  sake. 

"  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  "  what  shall  I  do  with  this 
child  ?" 

Mr.  Dick  considered,  hesitated,  brightened,  and  rejoined, 
"  Have  him  measured  for  a  suit  of  clothes  directly." 

"  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  triumphantly,  "  give  me  your 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  213 

hand,  for  your  common  sense  is  invaluable."  Having  shaken 
it  with  great  cordiality,  she  pulled  me  towards  her,  and  said 
to  Mr.  Murdstone: 

"  You  can  go  when  you  like;  I'll  take  my  chance  with 
the  boy.  If  he's  all  you  say  he  is,  at  least  I  can  do  as 
much  for  him  then,  as  you  have  done.  But  I  don't  believe 
a  word  of  it." 

"  Miss  Trotwood,"  rejoined  Mr.  Murdstone,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  as  he  rose,  "if  you  were  a  gentleman " 

"Bah!  stuff  and  nonsense!"  said  my  aunt.  "  Don't  talk 
to  me!" 

"  How  exquisitely  polite!"  exclaimed  Miss  Murdstone, 
rising.     "Overpowering,  really!" 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  know,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  sister,  and  continuing  to  address  the  brother, 
and  to  shake  her  head  at  him  with  infinite  expression, 
"  what  kind  of  life  you  must  have  led  that  poor,  unhappy, 
misdirected  baby?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  a 
woful  day  it  was  for  the  soft  little  creature,  when  you  first 
came  in  her  way — smirking  and  making  great  eyes  at  her, 
I'll  be  bound,  as  if  you  couldn't  say  boh!  to  a  goose!" 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  elegant!"  said  Miss  Murd- 
stone. 

"  Do  you  think  I  can't  understand  you  as  well  as  if  I  had 
seen  you,"  pursued  my  aunt,  "  now  that  I  do  see  and  hear 
you — which,  I  tell  you  candidly,  is  anything  but  a  pleasure 
to  me  ?  Oh  yes,  bless  us!  who  so  smooth  and  silky  as  Mr. 
Murdstone  at  first!  The  poor,  benighted  innocent  had 
never  seen  such  a  man.  He  was  made  of  sweetness.  He 
worshiped  her.  He  doted  on  her  boy — tenderly  doted  on 
him!  He  was  to  be  another  father  to  him,  and  they  were  all  to 
live  together  in  a  garden  of  roses,  weren't  they  ?  Ugh! 
Get  along  with  you,  do!"  said  my  aunt.  . 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  this  person  in  my  life!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Murdstone. 

"  And  when  you  had  made  sure  of  the  poor  little  fool," 
said  my  aunt — "  God  forgive  me  that  I  should  call  her  so, 
and  she  gone  where  you  won't  go  in  a  hurry — because  you 
had  not  done  wrong  enough  to  her  and  hers,  you  must  begin 
to  train  her,  must  you  ?  begin  to  break  her,  like  a  poor 
caged  bird,  and  wear  her  deluded  life  away,  in  teaching  her 
to  sing  your  notes  ?" 

"  This  is  either  insanity  or  intoxication,"  said  Miss  Murd- 


214  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

stone,  in  a  perfect  agony  at  not  being  able  to  turn  the  cur- 
rent of  my  aunt's  address  towards  herself;  "  and  my  suspi- 
cion is,  that  it's  intoxication." 

Miss  Betsey,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  the  inter- 
ruption, continued  to  address  herself  to  Mr.  Murdstone,  as 
if  there  had  been  no  such  thing. 

"  Mr.  Murdstone,"  she  said,  shaking  her  finger  at  him, 
"  you  were  a  tyrant  to  the  simple  baby,  and  you  broke  her 
heart.  She  was  a  loving  baby — I  know  that;  I  knew  it  years 
before  york,  vrver  saw  her — and  through  the  best  part  of  her 
weakness,  you  gave  her  the  wounds  she  died  of.  There  is 
the  truth  for  your  comfort,  however  you  like  it.  And  you 
and  your  instruments  may  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire.  Miss  Trotwood,"  interposed  Miss 
Murdstone,  "  whom  you  are  pleased  to  call,  in  a  choice  of 
words  in  w^hich  I  am  not  experienced,  my  brother's  instru- 
ments ?" 

Still  stone-deaf  to  the  voice,  and  utterly  unmoved  by  it, 
Miss  Betsey  pursued  her  course. 

"  It  was  clear  enough,  as  I  have  told  you,  years  before 
yoii  ever  saw  her — and  why,  in  the  mysterious  dispensations 
of  Providence,  you  ever  did  see  her,  is  more  than  humanity 
can  comprehend — it  was  clear  enough  that  the  poor  soft 
little  thing  would  marry  somebody,  at  some  time  or  other;  but 
I  did  hope  it  wouldn't  have  been  as  bad  as  it  has  turned  out. 
That  was  the  time,  Mr.  Murdstone,  when  she  gave  birth  to 
her  boy  here,"  said  my  aunt;  "  to  the  poor  child  you  some- 
times tormented  her  through  afterwards,  which  is  a  disagree- 
able remembrance,  and  makes  the  sight  of  him  odious  now. 
Ay,  ay!  you  needn't  wince!"  said  my  aunt;  "I  know  it's 
true  without  that." 

He  had  stood  by  the  door,  all  this  while,  observant  of  her 
with  a  smile  upon  his  face,  though  his  black  eyebrows  were 
heavily  contracted.  I  remarked  now,  that,  though  the  smile 
was  on  his  face  still,  his  color  had  gone  in  a  moment,  and  he 
seemed  to  breathe  as  if  he  had  been  running. 

"  Good  day,  sir  !  "  said  my  aunt,  "  and  good-by  !  Good 
day  to  you,  too,  ma'am,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  suddenly 
upon  his  sister.  "  Let  me  see  you  ride  a  donkey  over 
tny  green  again,  and  as  sure  as  you  have  a  head  upon 
your  shoulders,  I'll  knock  your  bonnet  off,  and  tread 
upon  it !" 

It  would  require  a  painter,  and  no  common  painter  too^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  tij 

to  depict  my  aunt's  face  as  she  delivered  herself  of  this  very- 
unexpected  sentiment,  and  Miss  Murdstone's  face  as  she 
heard  it.  But  the  manner  of  the  speech,  no  less  than  the 
matter,  was  so  fiery,  that  Miss  Murdstone,  without  a  word  in 
answer,  discreetly  put  her  arm  through  her  brother's,  and 
walked  haughtily  out  of  the  cottage;  my  aunt  remaining  in 
the  window  looking  after  them;  prepared,  I  have  no  doubt, 
in  case  of  the  donkey's  reappearance,  to  carry  her  threat 
into  instant  execution. 

No  attempt  at  defiance  being  made,  however,  her  face 
gradually  relaxed,  and  became  so  pleasant,  that  I  was  em- 
boldened to  kiss  and  thank  her;  which  I  did  with  great 
heartiness,  and  with  both  my  arms  clasped  round  her  neck. 
I  then  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Dick,  who  shook  hands  with 
me  a  great  many  times,  and  hailed  this  happy  close  of  the 
proceedings  with  repeated  bursts  of  laughter. 

"  You'll  consider  yourself  guardian,  jointly  with  me,  of 
this  child,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  to  be  the  guardian 
of  David's  son." 

"  Very  good,"  returned  my  aunt,  '*  thafs  settled.  I  have 
been  thinking,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Dick,  that  I  might  call 
him  Trotwood  ?" 

"  Certainly,  certainly.  Call  him  Trotwood,  certainly," 
said  Mr.  Dick.     "David's  son's  Trotwood." 

"  Trotwood  Copperfield,  you  mean,"  returned  my  aunt. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Yes.  Trotwood  Copperfield,"  said 
Mr.  Dick,  a  little  abashed. 

My  aunt  took  so  kindly  to  the  notion,  that  some  ready 
made  clothes,  which  were  purchased  for  me  in  the  afternoon, 
were  marked  "Trotwood  Copperfield,"  in  her  own  hand- 
writing, and  in  indelible  marking-ink,  before  I  put  them  on; 
and  it  was  settled  that  all  the  other  clothes  which  were 
ordered  to  be  made  for  me  (a  complete  outfit  was  bespoke 
that  afternoon)  should  be  marked  in  the  same  way. 

Thus  I  began  my  new  life,  in  a  new  name,  and  with  every- 
thing new  about  me.  Now  that  the  state  of  doubt  was  over 
I  felt,  for  many  days,  like  one  in  a  dream.  I  never  thought 
that  I  had  a  curious  couple  of  guardians,  in  my  aunt  and 
Mr.  Dick.  I  never  thought  anything  about  myself  distinctly. 
The  two  things  clearest  in  my  mind  were,  that  a  remoteness 
had  come  upon  the  old  Blunderstone  life — which  seemed  to 
Jie  in  a  haze  of  an  immeasurable  distance;  and  that  a  cur- 


2i0  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

tain  had  forever  fallen  on  my  life  at  Murdstone  and 
Grinby's.  No  one  has  ever  raised  that  curtain  since.  1 
have  lifted  it  for  a  moment,  even  in  this  narrative,  with  a 
reluctant  hand,  and  dropped  it  gladly.  The  remembrance 
of  that  life  is  fraught  with  so  much  pain  to  me,  with  so  much 
mental  suffering  and  want  of  hope,  that  I  have  never  had 
the  courage  even  to  examine  how  long  I  was  doomed  to  lead 
it.  Whether  it  lasted  for  a  year,  or  more,  or  less,  I  do  not 
know.  I  only  know  that  it  was,  and  it  ceased  to  be,  and 
that'  I  have  written,  and  there  I  leave  it. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I   MAKE    ANOTHER    BEGINNING. 

Mr.  Dick  and  I  soon  became  the  best  of  friends,  and 
very  often  when  his  day's  work  was  done,  went  out  together 
to  fly  the  great  kite.  Every  day  of  his  life  he  had  a  long 
sitting  at  the  Memorial,  which  never  made  the  least  progress, 
however  hard  he  labored,  for  King  Charles  the  First  always 
strayed  into  it,  sooner  or  later,  and  then  it  was  thrown  aside 
and  another  one  begun.  The  patience  and  hope  with  which 
he  bore  these  perpetual  disappointments,  the  mild  percep- 
tion he  had  that  there  was  something  wrong  about  King 
Charles  the  First,  the  feeble  efforts  he  made  to  keep  him  out, 
and  the  certainty  with  which  he  came  in,  and  tumbled  the 
Memorial  all  out  of  .shape,  made  a  deep  impression  on  me. 
What  Mr.  Dick  supposed  would  come  of  the  Memorial,  if  it 
were  completed  ;  where  he  thought  it  was  to  go,  or  what  he 
thought  it  was  to  do  ;  he  knew  no  more  than  anybody  else, 
I  believe.  Nor  was  it  at  all  necessary  that  he  should  trouble 
himself  with  such  questions,  for  if  anything  was  certain  under 
the  sun,  it  was  certain  that  the  Memorial  never  would  be 
finished. 

It  was  quite  an  affecting  sight,  I  used  to  think,  to  see  him 
with  the  kite  when  it  was  up  a  great  height  in  the  air.  What 
he  had  told  me,  in  his  room,  about  his  belief  in  its  dissemi- 
nating the  statements  pasted  on  it,  which  were  nothing  but 
old  leaves  of  abortive  Memorials,  might  have  been  a  fancy 
with  him  sometimes  ;  but  not  when  he  was  out,  looking  up 
at  the  kite  in  the  sky,  and  feeling  it  pull  and  tug  at  his  hand. 
He  never  looked  so  serene  as  he  did  then.  I  used  to  fancy, 
as  I  sat  by  him  of  an  evening  on  a  great  green  slope,  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  217 

saw  him  watch  the  kite  high  in  the  quiet  air,  that  it  lifted 
his  mind  out  of  its  confusion,  and  bore  it  (such  was  my  boy- 
ish thought)  into  the  skies.  As  he  wound  the  string  in,  and 
It  came  lower  and  lower  down  out  of  the  beautiful  light,  un- 
til it  fluttered  to  the  ground  and  lay  there  like  a  dead  thing, 
he  seemed  to  wake  gradually  out  of  a  dream  ;  and  I  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  him  take  it  up,  and  look  about  him  in  a  lost 
way,  as  if  they  had  both  come  down  together,  so  that  1 
pitied  him  with  all  my  heart. 

While  I  advanced  in  friendship  and  intimacy  with  Mr. 
Dick,  I  did  not  go  backward  in  the  favor  of  his  staunch 
friend,  my  aunt.  She  took  so  kindly  to  me,  that,  in  the  course 
of  a  few  weeks,  she  shortened  my  adopted  name  of  Trotwood 
into  Trot ;  and  even  encouraged  me  to  hope  that  if  I  went 
on  as  I  had  begun,  I  might  take  equal  rank  in  her  affections 
with  my  sister  Betsey  Trotwood. 

"  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  one  evening,  when  the  backgam- 
mon-board was  placed  as  usual  for  herself  and  Mr.  Dick, 
"we  must  not  forget  your  education." 

This  was  my  only  subject  of  anxiety,  and  I  felt  quite  de- 
lighted by  her  referring  to  it. 

'*  Should  you  like  to  go  to  school  at  Canterbury  ?*'  said 
my  aunt. 

I  replied  that  I  should  Uke  it  very  much  as  it  was  so  near  her. 

"Good,"  said  my  aunt.  "Should  you  like  to  go  to-morrrow?" 

Being  already  no  stranger  to  the  general  rapidity  of  my 
aunt's  evolutions,  I  was  not  surprised  by  the  suddenness  of 
the  proposal,  and  said  :     "  Yes." 

"  Good,"  said  my  aunt  again.  "  Janet,  hire  the  gray  pony 
and  chaise  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  pack  up 
Master  Trotwood's  clothes  to-night." 

I  was  greatly  elated  by  these  orders  ;  but  my  heart  smote 
me  for  my  selfishness,  when  I  noticed  their  effect  on  Mr.  Dick, 
who  was  so  low-spirited  at  the  prospect  of  our  separation, 
and  played  so  ill  in  consequence,  that  my  aunt,  after  giving 
him  several  admonitory  raps  on  the  knuckles  with  her  dice- 
box,  shut  up  the  board  and  decHned  to  play  with  him  any 
more.  But,  on  hearing  from  my  aunt  that  I  should  sometimes 
come  over  on  a  Saturday,  and  that  he  could  sometimes  come 
and  see  me  on  a  Wednesday,  he  revived  ;  and  vowed  to  make 
me  another  kite  for  those  occasions,  of  proportions  greatly 
surpassing  the  present  one.  In  the  morning  he  was  down- 
hearted again,  and  would  have  sustained  himself  by  giving 


2i8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

me  all  the  money  he  had  in  his  possession,  gold  and  silver 
too,  if  my  aunt  had  not  interposed,  and  limited  the  gift  to 
five  shillings,  which,  at  his  earnest  petition,  were  afterwards 
increased  to  ten.  We  parted  at  the  garden-gate  in  a  most 
affectionate  manner,  and  Mr.  Dick  did  not  go  into  the  house 
until  my  aunt  had  driven  me  out  of  sight  of  it. 

My  aunt,  who  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  public  opinion, 
drove  the  gray  pony  through  Dover  in  a  masterly  manner; 
sitting  high  and  stiff  like  a  state  coachman,  keeping  a  steady 
eye  upon  him  wherever  he  went,  and  making  a  point  of  not 
letting  him  have  his  own  way  in  any  respect.  When  we  came 
into  the  country  road,  she  permitted  him  to  relax  a  little, 
however;  and  looking  at  me  down  in  a  valley  of  cushions  by 
her  side,  asked  me  whether  I  was  happy. 

**  Very  happy  indeed,  thank  you,  aunt,"  I  said. 

She  was  much  gratified;  and  both  her  hands  being  occu- 
pied patted  me  on  the  head  with  her  whip. 

'*  Is  it  a  large  school,  aunt  ?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  said  my  aunt.  "We  are  going  to 
Mr.  Wickfield's  first." 

"  Does  he  keep  a  school  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt.     "  He  keeps  an  office." 

I  asked  for  no  more  information  about  Mr.  Wickfield,  as 
she  offered  none,  and  we  conversed  on  other  subjects  until 
we  came  to  Canterbury,  where,  as  it  was  market-day,  my 
aunt  had  a  great  opportunity  of  insinuating  the  gray  pony 
among  carts,  baskets,  vegetables,  and  hucksters'  goods.  The 
hair-breadth  turns  and  twists  we  made,  drew  down  upon  us 
a  variety  of  speeches  from  the  people  standing  about,  which 
were  not  always  complimentary;  but  my  aunt  drove  on  with 
perfect  indifference,  and  I  dare  say  would  have  taken  her 
own  way  with  as  much  coolness  through  an  enemy's  country. 

At  length  we  stopped  before  a  very  old  house  bulging  out 
over  the  road;  a  house  with  long  low  lattice-windows  bulg- 
ing out  still  farther,  and  beams  with  carved  heads  on  the 
ends  bulging  out  too,  so  that  I  fancied  the  whole  house  was 
leaning  forward,  trying  to  see  who  was  passing  on  the  narrow 
pavement  below.  It  was  quite  spotless  in  its  cleanliness. 
The  old-fashioned  brass  knocker  on  the  low  arched  door, 
ornamented  with  carved  garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
twinkled  like  a  star;  the  two  stone  steps  descending  to  the 
door  were  as  white  as  if  they  had  been  covered  with  fair 
linen;  and  all  the  angles  and  corners,   and  carvings  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  219 

moldings,  and  quaint  little  panes  of  glass,  and  quainter  lit- 
tle windows,  though  as  old  as  the  hills,  were  as  pure  as  any 
snow  that  ever  fell  upon  the  hills. 

When  the  pony-chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  and  my  eyes 
were  intent  upon  the  house,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  face  appear 
at  a  small  window  on  the  ground  floor  (in  a  little  round  tower 
that  formed  one  side  of  the  house),  and  quickly  disappear. 
The  low  arched  door  then  opened,  and  the  face  came  out. 
It  was  quite  as  cadaverous  as  it  had  looked  in  the  window, 
though  in  the  grain  of  it  there  was  that  tinge  of  red  which  is 
sometimes  to  be  observed  in  the  skins  of  red-haired  people. 
It  belonged  to  a  red-haired  person — a  youth  of  fifteen,  as  I 
take  it  now,  but  looking  much  older — whose  hair  was  cropped 
as  close  as  the  closest  stubble;  who  had  hardly  any  eyebrows, 
and  no  eyelashes,  and  eyes  of  a  red-brown;  so  unsheltered 
and  unshaded,  that  I  remember  wondering  how  he  went  to 
sleep.  He  was  high-shouldered  and  bony;  dressed  in  decent 
black,  with  a  white  wisp  of  a  neckcloth;  buttoned  up  to  the 
throat;  and  had  a  long,  lank,  skeleton  hand,  which  particu- 
larly attracted  my  attention,  as  he  stood  at  the  pony's  head, 
rubbing  his  chin  with  it,  and  looking  up  at  us  in  the  chaise. 

"  Is  Mr.  Wickfield  at  home,  Uriah  Heep  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Mr.  Wickfield's  at  home,  ma'am,"  said  Uriah  Heep,  "  if 
you'll  please  to  walk  in  there  " — pointing  with  his  long  hand 
to  the  room  he  meant. 

We  got  out;  and  leaving  him  to  hold  the  pony,  went  into 
a  long  low  parlor  looking  towards  the  street,  from  the  win- 
dow of  which  I  caught  a  glimpse,  as  I  went  in,  of  Uriah 
Heep  breathing  into  the  pony's  nostrils,  and  immediately 
covering  them  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  putting  some  spell 
upon  him.  Opposite  to  the  tall  old  chimney-piece,  were  two 
portraits:  one  of  a  gentleman  with  gray  hair  (though  not  by 
any  means  an  old  man)  and  black  eyebrows,  who  was  look- 
ing over  some  papers  tied  together  with  red  tape;  the  other, 
of  a  lady,  with  a  very  placid  and  sweet  expression  of  face, 
who  was  looking  at  me. 

I  believe  I  was  turning  about  in  search  of  Uriah's  picture, 
when,  a  door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  opening,  a  gen- 
tleman entered,  at  sight  of  whom  I  turned  to  the  first-men- 
tioned portrait  again,  to  make  quite  sure  that  it  had  not  come 
out  of  its  frame.  But  it  was  stationary;  and  as  the  gentle- 
man advanced  into  the  light,  I  saw "  that  he  was  some  years 
older  than  when  he  had  had  his  picture  painted. 


220  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood,"  said  the  gentleman,  "pray  walk 
in.  I  was  engaged  for  the  moment,  but  you'll  excuse  my 
being  busy.     You  know  my  motive.     I  have  but  one  in  life." 

Miss  Betsey  thanked  him,  and  we  went  into  his  room, 
which  was  furnished  as  an  office,  with  books,  papers,  tin 
boxes,  and  so  forth.  It  looked  into  a  garden,  and  had  an 
iron  safe  let  into  the  wall;  so  immediately  over  the  mantel- 
shelf, that  I  wondered  as  I  sat  down,  how  the  sweeps  got 
round  it  when  they  swept  the  chimney. 

*'  Well,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield;  for  I  soon 
found  that  it  was  he,  and  that  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  steward 
of  the  estates  of  a  rich  gentleman  of  the  county;  "  what 
wind  blows  you  here  ?  Not  an  ill  wind,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  my  aunt,  "  I  have  not  come  for  any  law." 

"  That's  right,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  You  had 
better  come  for  anything  else." 

His  hair  was  quite  white  now,  though  his  eyebrows  were 
still  black.  He  had  a  very  agreeable  face,  and,  I  thought, 
was  handsome.  There  was  a  certain  richness  in  his  com- 
plexion, which  I  had  been  long  accustomed,  under  Peggotty's 
tuition,  to  connect  with  port  wine;  and  I  fancied  it  was  in 
his  voice  too,  and  referred  his  growing  corpulency  to  the 
same  cause.  He  was  very  cleanly  dressed,  in  a  blue  coat, 
striped  waistcoat,  and  nankeen  trowsers,  and  his  fine  frilled 
shirt  and  cambric  neckcloth  looked  unusuallv  soft  and  white, 
reminding  my  strolling  fancy  (I  call  to  mind)  of  the  plumage 
S)n  the  breast  of  a  swan. 

"  This  is  my  nephew,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Wasn't  aware  you  had  one,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Mr. 
Wickfield. 

"  My  grand-nephew,  that  is  to  say,"  observed  my  aunt. 

"Wasn't  aware  you  had  a  grand-nephew,  I  give  you  my 
word,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

"  I  have  adopted  him,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  importing  that  his  knowledge  and  his  ignorance  were 
all  one  to  her,  "  and  I  have  brought  him  here,  to  put  him  to 
a  school  where  he  may  be  thoroughly  well  taught,  and  well 
treated.  Now  tell  me  where  that  school  is,  and  what  it  is, 
and  all  about  it." 

"Before  I  can  advise  you  properly,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield, 
— "  the  old  question,  you  know.  What's  your  motive  in  this  ?" 

"Deuce  take  the  man!"  exclaimed  my  aunt.  "Always 
fishing  for  motives,  when  they're  on  the  surface  !  Why,  to 
make  the  child  happy  and  useful." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  221 

"It  must  be  a  mixed  motive,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield, 
shaking  his  head  and  smiling  incredulously. 

"A  mixed  fiddlestick  !"  returned  my  aunt.  "You  claim 
to  have  one  plain  motive  in  all  you  do  yourself.  You  don't 
suppose,  I  hope,  that  you  are  the  only  plain  dealer  in  the 
world?" 

"  Ay,  but  I  have  only  one  motive  in  life.  Miss  Trotwood," 
he  rejoined,  smiling.  "  Other  people  have  dozens,  scores, 
hundreds.  I  have  only  one.  There's  the  difference.  How- 
ever, that's  beside  the  question.  The  best  school  ?  What- 
ever the  motive,  you  want  the  best  ?" 

My  aunt  nodded  assent. 

"  At  the  best  we  have,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  considering, 
"your  nephew  couldn't  board  just  now." 

"  But  he  could  board  somewhere  else,  I  suppose,"  sug- 
gested my  aunt. 

Mr.  Wickfield  thought  I  could.  After  a  little  discussion, 
he  proposed  to  take  my  aunt  to  the  school,  that  she  might 
see  it  and  judge  for  herself;  also,  to  take  her,  with  the  same 
object,  to  two  or  three  houses  where  he  thought  I  could  be 
boarded.  My  aunt  embracing  the  proposal,  we  were  all 
three  going  out  together,  when  he  stopped  and  said: 

"  Our  little  friend  here  might  have  some  motive,  perhaps, 
for  objecting  to  the  arrangements.  I  think  we  had  better 
leave  him   behind." 

My  aunt  seemed  disposed  to  contest  the  point;  but  to 
facilitate  matters  I  said  I  would  gladly  remain  behind,  if 
they  pleased,  and  returned  into  Mr.  Wickfield's  office,  where 
I  sat  down  again,  in  the  chair  I  had  first  occupied,  to  await 
their  return. 

It  so  happened  that  this  chair  was  opposite  a  narrow  pas- 
sage, which  ended  in  the  little  circular  room  where  I  had 
seen  Uriah  Heep's  pale  face  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Uriah,  having  taken  the  pony  to  a  neighboring  stable,  was 
at  work  at  a  desk  in  this  room,  which  had  a  brass  frame  on 
the  top  to  hang  papers  upon,  and  on  which  the  writing  he 
was  making  a  copy  of,  was  then  hanging.  Though  his  face 
was  towards  me,  I  thought,  for  some  time,  the  writing  being 
between  us,that  he  could  not  see  me ;  but  looking  that  way  more 
attentively,  it  made  me  uncomfortable  to  observe  that,  every 
now  and  then,  his  sleepless  eyes  would  come  below  the 
writing,  like  two  red  suns,  and  stealthily  stare  at  me  for  I 
dare  say  a  whole  minute  at  a  time,  during  which  his  pen 


222  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

went,  or  pretended  to  go,  as  cleverly  as  ever.  I  made  sev- 
eral attempts  to  get  out  of  their  way — such  as  standing  on 
a  chair  to  look  at  a  map  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and 
poring  over  the  columns  of  a  Kentish  newspaper — but  they 
always  attracted  me  back  again;  and  whenever  I  looked 
towards  those  two  red  suns,  I  was  sure  to  find  them,  either 
just  rising  or  just  setting. 

At  length,  much  to  my  relief,  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Wickfield 
came  back,  after  a  pretty  long  absence.  They  were  not  so 
successful  as  I  could  have  wished;  for,  though  the  advan- 
tages of  the  school  were  undeniable,  my  aunt  had  not  ap- 
proved of  any  of  the  boarding-houses  proposed  for  me. 

"  It's  very  unfortunate,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Trot." 

"  It  does  happen  unfortunately,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 
"  But  I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do,  Miss  Trotwood." 

"  What's  that  ?"  inquired  my  aunt. 

"  Leave  your  nephew  here  for  the  present.  He's  a  quiet 
fellow.  He  won't  disturb  me  at  all.  It's  a  capital  house 
for  study.  As  quiet  as  a  monastery,  and  almost  as  roomy. 
Leave  him  here," 

My  aunt  evidently  liked  the  offer,  though  she  was  delicate 
of  accepting  it.     So  did  I. 

"  Come,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  This  is 
the  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  It's  only  a  temporary  arrange- 
ment, you  know.  If  it  don't  act  well,  or  don't  quite  accord 
with  our  mutual  convenience,  he  can  easily  go  to  the  right 
about.  There  will  be  time  to  find  some  better  place  for  him 
in  the  meanwhile.  You  had  better  determine  to  leave  him 
here  for  the  present." 

*'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  my  aunt;  "  and  so 
is  he,  I  see;  but " 

"  Come!  I  know  what  you  mean,"  cried  Mr.  Wickfield, 
"  You  shall  not  be  oppressed  by  the  receipt  of  favors.  Miss 
Trotwood.  You  may  pay  for  him  if  you  like.  We  won't  be 
hard  about  terms,  but  you  shall  pay  if  you  will." 

"  On  that  understanding,"  said  my  aunt,  "  though  it 
doesn't  lessen  the  real  obligation,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
leave  him." 

*'  Then  come  and  see  my  little  housekeeper,"  said  Mr, 
Wickfield. 

We  accordingly  went  up  a  wonderful  old  staircase,  with 
a  balustrade  so  broad  that  we  might  have  gone  up  that, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  223 

almost  as  easily;  and  into  a  shady  old  drawing-room,  lighted 
by  some  three  or  four  of  the  quaint  windows  I  had  looked 
up  at  from  the  street:  which  had  old  oak  seats  in  them, 
that  seemed  to  have  come  of  the  same  trees  as  the  shin- 
ing oak  floor,  and  the  great  beams  in  the  ceiling.  It  was  a 
prettily  furnished  room,  with  a  piano  and  some  lively  furni- 
ture in  red  and  green,  and  some  flowers.  It  seemed  to 
be  all  old  nooks  and  corners;  and  in  every  nook  and  corner 
there  was  some  queer  little  table,  or  cupboard,  or  bookcase, 
or  seat,  or  something  or  other,  that  made  me  think  there 
was  not  such  another  good  corner  in  the  room  ;  until  1 
looked  at  the  next  one,  and  found  it  equal  to  it,  if  not 
better.  On  everything  there  was  the  same  air  of  retirement 
and  cleanliness  that  marked  the  house  outside. 

Mr.  Wickfield  tapped  at  a  door  in  a  corner  of  the  pan- 
eled wall,  and  a  girl  of  about  my  own  age  came  quickly  out 
and  kissed  him.  On  her  face,  I  saw  immediately  the  placid 
and  sweet  expression  of  the  lady  whose  picture  had  looked 
at  me  down-stairs.  It  seemed  to  my  imagination  as  if  the 
portrait  had  grown  womanly,  and  the  original  remained  a 
child.  Although  her  face  was  quite  bright  and  happy,  there 
was  a  tranquillity  about  it,  and  about  her — a  quiet,  good, 
calm  spirit — that  I  never  have  forgotten;  that  I  never  shall 
forget. 

This  was  his  little  housekeeper,  his  daughter,  Agnes,  Mr. 
Wickfield  said.  When  I  heard  how  he  said  it,  and  saw  how  he 
held  her  hand,  I  guessed  what  the  one  motive  of  his  life  was. 

She  had  a  little  basket-trifle  hanging  at  her  side,  with 
keys  in  it;  and  looked  as  staid  and  as  discreet  a  housekeeper 
as  the  old  house  could  have.  She  listened  to  her  father  as 
he  told  her  about  me,  with  a  pleasant  face;  and  when  he 
had  concluded,  proposed  to  my  aunt  that  we  should  go  up- 
stairs and  see  my  room.  We  all  went  together;  she  before 
us:  and  a  glorious  old  room  it  was,  with  more  oak  beams, 
and  diamond  panes;  and  the  broad  balustrade  going  all  the 
way  up  to  it. 

I  cannot  call  to  mind  where  or  when,  in  my  childhood,  I 
had  seen  a  stained  glass  window  in  a  church.  Nor  do  I  re- 
collect its  subject.  But  I  know  that  when  I  saw  her  turn 
round,  in  the  grave  light  of  the  old  staircase,  and  wait  for 
us  above,  I  thought  of  that  window;  and  that  I  associated 
something  of  its  tranquil  brightness  with  Agnes  Wickfield 
ever  afterwards. 


2i4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

My  aunt  was  as  happy  as  I  was,  in  the  arrangement  made 
for  me;  and  we  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  again,  well 
pleased  and  gratified.  As  she  would  not  hear  of  staying  to 
dinner,  lest  she  should  by  chance  fail  to  arrive  at  home  with 
ihe  gray  pony  before  dark;  and  as  I  apprehended  Mr.  Wick- 
field  knew  her  too  well,  to  argue  any  point  with  her;  some 
lunch  was  provided  for  her  there,  and  Agnes  went  back  to 
her  governess,  and  Mr.  Wickfield  to  his  office.  So  we  were 
left  to  take  leave  of  one  another  without  any  restraint. 

She  told  me  that  everything  would  be  arranged  for  me  by 
Mr.  Wickfield,  and  that  1  should  want  for  nothing,  and  gave 
me  the  kindest  words  and  the  best  advice. 

"  Trot,"  said  my  aunt  in  conclusion,  "  be  a  credit  to  your- 
self, to  me,  and  Mr.  Dick,  and  Heaven  b©  with  you!" 

I  was  greatly  overcome,  and  could  only  thank  her  again 
and  again,  and  send  my  love  to  Mr.  Dick. 

"Never,"  said  my  aunt,  "be  mean  in  anything;  never  be 
false;  never  be  cruel.  Avoid  these  three  vices,  Trot,  and  I 
can  always  be  hopeful  of  you." 

I  promised,  as  well  as  I  could,  that  I  would  not  abuse  her 
kindness  or  forget  her  admonition. 

"  The  pony's  at  the  door,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  I  am  off  ! 
Stay  here." 

With  these  words  she  embraced  me  hastily,  and  went  out 
the  room,  shutting  the  door  after  her.  At  first  I  was  startled 
by  so  abrupt  a  departure,  and  almost  feared  I  had  displeased 
her;  but  when  I  looked  into  the  street,  and  saw  how  de- 
jectedly she  got  into  the  chaise,  and  drove  away  without 
looking  up,  I  understood  her  better,  and  did  not  do  her  that 
injustice. 

By  five  o'clock,  which  was  Mr.  Wickfield's  dinner  hour,  I 
had  mustered  up  my  spirits  again,  and  was  ready  for  my 
knife  and  fork.  The  cloth  was  only  laid  for  us  two;  but 
Agnes  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner,  went 
down  with  her  father,  and  sat  opposite  to  him  at  table.  I 
doubted  whether  he  could  have  dined  without  her. 

We  did  not  stay  there  after  dinner,  but  came  up-stairS 
into  the  drawing-room  again:  in  one  snug  corner  of  which, 
Agnes  set  glasses  for  her  father,  and  a  decanter  of  port  wine. 
I  thought  he  would  have  missed  its  usual  flavor,  if  it  had 
been  put  there  for  him  by  any  other  hands. 

There  he  sat,  taking  his  wine,  and  taking  a  good  deal  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  225 

it,  for  two  hours;  while  Agnes  played  on  the  piano,  worked, 
and  talked  to  him  and  me.  He  was,  for  the  most  part,  gay 
and  cheerful  with  us;  but  sometimes  his  eyes  rested  on  her, 
and  he  fell  into  a  brooding  state,  and  was  silent.  She  al- 
ways observed  this  quickly,  as  I  thought,  and  always  roused 
him  with  a  question  or  a  caress.  Then  he  came  out  of  his 
meditation,  and  drank  more  wine. 

Agnes  made  the  tea  and  presided  over  it;  and  the  time 
passed  away  after  it,  as  after  dinner,  until  she  went  to  bed, 
when  her  father  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and 
she  being  gone,  ordered  candles  in  his  office.  Then  I  went 
to  bed  too. 

But  in  the  course  of  the  evening  I  had  rambled  down  to 
the  door,  and  a  little  way  along  the  street,  that  I  might  hav-e 
another  peep  at  the  old  houses,  and  the  gray  cathedral;  and 
might  think  of  my  coming  through  that  old  city  on  my  jour- 
ney, and  of  my  passing  the  very  house  I  lived  in,  without 
knowing  it.  As  I  came  back,  I  saw  Uriah  Heep  shutting  up 
the  office;  and  feeling  friendly  towards  everybody,  went  in 
and  spoke  to  him,  and  at  parting,  gave  him  my  hand.  But 
oh,  what  a  clammy  hand  his  was!  as  ghostly  to  the  touch  as 
to  the  sight!  I  rubbed  mine  afterwards  to  warm  it,  and  to 
rub  his  off. 

It  was  such  an  uncomfortable  hand,  that,  when  I  ,went  to 
my  room,  it  was  still  cold  and  wet  upon  my  memory.  Lean- 
ing out  of  the  window,  and  seeing  one  of  the  faces  on  the 
beam-ends  looking  at  me  sideways,  I  fancied  it  was  Uriah 
Heep  got  up  there  somehow-  and  shut  him  out  in  a  hurry. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

I    AM    A    NEW    BOY    IN    MORE    SENSES   THAN   ONE. 

Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  I  entered  on  school  life 
again.  I  went,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Wickfield,  to  the  scene 
of  my  future  studies — a  grave  building  in  a  court-yard,  with 
a  learned  air  about  it  that  seemed  very  well  suited  to  the 
stray  rooks  and  jackdaws  who  came  down  from  the  cathe- 
dral towers  to  walk  with  a  clerkly  bearing  on  the  grass-plot 
— and  was  introduced  to  my  new  master,  Dr.  Strong. 


226  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Dr.  Strong  looked  almost  as  rusty,  to  my  thinking,  as  the 
tall  iron  rails  and  gates  outside  the  house;  and  almost  as 
stiff  and  heavy  as  the  great  stone  urns  that  flanked  them, 
and  were  set  up,  on  the  top  of  the  red-brick  wall,  at  regular 
distances  all  round  the  court,  like  sublimated  skittles,  for 
Time  to  play  at.  He  was  in  his  library  (I  mean  Doctor 
Strong  was),  with  his  clothes  not  particularly  well  brushed, 
and  his  hair  not  particularly  well  combed;  his  knee-smalls 
unbraced;  his  long  black  gaiters  unbuttoned;  and  his  shoes 
yawning  like  two  caverns  on  the  hearth-rug.  Turning  upon 
me  a  lusterless  eye,  that  reminded  me  of  a  long-forgotten 
blind  old  horse  who  once  used  to  crop  the  grass,  and  tumble 
over  the  graves,  in  Blunderstone  churchyard,  he  said  he  was 
glad  to  see  me:  and  then^he  gave  me  his  hand;  which  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do  with,  as  it  did  nothing  for  itself. 

But,  sitting  at  work,  not  far  off  from  Dr.  Strong,  was  a 
very  pretty  young  lady — whom  he  called  Annie,  and  who 
was  his  daughter,  I  supposed — who  got  me  out  of  my  diffi- 
culty by  kneeling  down  to  put  Dr.  Strong's  shoes  on,  and 
button  his  gaiters,  which  she  did  with  great  cheerfulness 
and  quickness.  When  she  had  finished,  and  we  were  going 
out  to  the  school-room,  I  was  much  surprised  to  hear  Mr. 
Wickfield,  in  bidding  her  good  morning,  address  her  as 
"  Mrs.  Strong;"  and  I  was  wondering  could  she  be  Doctor 
Strong's  son's  wife,  or  could  she  be  Mrs.  Doctor  Strong, 
when  Doctor  Strong  himself  unconsciously  enlightened  me. 

"  By  the  bye,  Wickfield,"  he  said,  stopping  in  a  passage 
with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder;  *'  you  have  not  found  any 
suitable  provision  for  my  wife's  cousin  yet?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.     ''  No.     Not  yet." 

"  I  could  wish  it  done  as  soon  as  it  ^an  be  done,  Wick- 
field," said  Doctor  Strong,  "  for  Jack  Maldon  is  needy,  and 
idle;  and  of  those  two  bad  things,  worse  things  sometimes 
come.  What  does  Dr.  Watts  say,"  he  added,  looking  at  me, 
and  moving  his  head  to  the  time  of  his  quotation,  "  '  Satan 
finds  some  mischief  still,  for  idle  hands  to  do.' " 

"  Egad,  doctor,"  returned  Mr  Wickfield,  "  if  Dr.  Watts 
knew  mankind,  he  might  have  written,  with  as  much  truth, 
*  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still  for  busy  hands  to  do.'  The 
busy  people  achieve  their  full  share  of  mischief  in  the 
world,  you  may  rely  upon  it.  What  have  the  people  been 
about,  who  have  been  the  busiest  in  getting  money,  and  ii> 
getting  power,  this  century  or  two  ?     No  mischief?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  127 

"  Jack  Maldon  will  never  be  very  busy  in  getting  either 
I  expect,"  said  Dr.  Strong,  rubbing  his  chin  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield;  "and  you  bring  me 
back  to  the  question,  with  an  apology  for  digressing.  No, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  dispose  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  yet.  I 
believe,"  he  said  this  with  some  hesitation,  "  I  penetrate 
your  motive,  and  it  makes  the  thing  more  difficult." 

"  My  motive,"  returned  Dr.  Strong,  "  is  to  make  some 
suitable  provision  for  a  cousin,  and  an  old  playfellow,  of 
Annie's." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  "  at  home  or  abroad." 

"Aye!"  replied  the  Doctor,  apparently  wondering  why 
he  emphasized  these  words  so  much.     "  At  home  or  abroad." 

"Your  own  expression,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 
"  Or  abroad." 

"  Surely,"  the  Doctor  answered.    "  Surely.    One  or  other." 

"One  or  other?  Have  you  no  choice?"  asked  Mr. 
Wickfield. 

"  No,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  No!"  with  astonishment. 

"  Not  the  least." 

"  No  motive,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  "for  meaning  abroad, 
and  not  at  home  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  I  am  bound  to  believe  you,  and  of  course  I  do  believe 
you,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  It  might  have  simplified  my 
office  very  much,  if  I  had  known  it  before.  But  I  confess 
I  entertained  another  impression." 

Doctor  Strong  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  and  doubt- 
ing look,  which  almost  immediately  subsided  into  a  smile 
that  gave  me  great  encouragement;  for  it  was  full  of  amia- 
bility and  sweetness,  and  there  was  a  simplicity  in  it,  and 
indeed  in  his  whole  manner,  when  the  studious,  pondering 
frost  upon  it  was  got  through,  very  attractive  and  hopeful 
to  a  young  scholar  like  me.  Repeating  "  no,"  and  "  not  the 
least,"  and  other  short  assurances  to  the  same  purport.  Doc- 
tor Strong  jogged  on  before  us,  at  a  queer,  uneven  pace;  and 
we  followed:  Mr.  Wickfield.  looking  grave,  I  observed,  and 
shaking  his  head  to  himself,  without  knowing  that  I  saw  him. 

The  school-room  was  a  pretty  large  hall,  on  the  quietest 
side  of  the  house,  confronted  by  the  stately  stare  of  some 
half-dozen  of  the  great  urns,  and  commanding  a  peep  of  an 
old  secluded   garden  belonging  to  the  Doctor,  where  the 


228  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

peaches  were  ripening  on  the  sunny  south  wall.  There 
were  two  great  aloes,  in  tubs,  on  the  turf  outside  the  win- 
dows; the  broad  hard  leaves  of  which  plant  (looking  as  if 
they  were  made  of  painted  tin)  have  ever  since,  by  associa- 
tion, been  symbolical  to  me  of  silence  and  retirement. 
About  five-and-twenty  boys  were  studiously  engaged  at 
their  books  when  we  went  in,  but  they  rose  to  give  the  Doc- 
tor good  morning,  and  remained  standing  when  they  saw 
Mr.  Wickfield  and  me. 

**  A  new  boy,  young  gentlemen,"  said  the  Doctor;  "  Trot- 
wood  Copperfield." 

One  Adams,  who  was  the  head  boy,  then  stepped  out  of 
his  place  and  welcomed  me.  He  looked  like  a  young  cler- 
gyman, in  his  white  cravat,  but  he  was  very  affable  and 
good-humored;  and  he  showed  me  my  place,  and  presented 
me  to  the  masters,  in  a  gentlemanly  way,  that  would  have 
put  me  at  my  ease,  if  anything  could. 

It  seemed  to  me  so  long,  however,  since  I  had  been  among 
such  boys,  or  among  any  companions  of  my  own  age,  except 
Mick  Walker  and  Mealy  Potatoes,  that  I  felt  as  strange  as 
I  ever  have  done  in  all  my  life.  I  was  so  conscious  of  hav- 
ing passed  through  scenes  of  which  they  could  have  no 
knowledge,  and  of  having  acquired  experiences  foreign  to 
my  age,  appearance,  and  condition,  as  one  of  them,  that 
I  half  believed  it  was  an  imposture  to  come  there  as  an  or- 
dinary little  schoolboy.  I  had  become,  in  the  Murdstone 
and  Grinby  time,  however  short  or  long  it  may  have  been, 
so  unused  to  the  sports  and  games  of  boys,  that  I  knew  I 
was  awkward  and  inexperienced  in  the  commonest  things 
belonging  to  them.  Whatever  I  had  learnt,  had  so  slipped 
away  from  me  in  the  sordid  cares  of  my  life  from  day  to 
night,  that  now,  when  I  was  examined  about  what  I  knew,  I 
knew  nothing,  and  was  put  into  the  lowest  form  of  the 
school.  But,  troubled  as  I  was,  by  my  want  of  boyish  skill, 
and  of  book-learning  too,  I  was  made  infinitely  more  un- 
comfortable by  the  consideration,  that,  in  what  I  did  know, 
I  was  much  farther  removed  from  my  companions  than  in 
what  I  did  not.  My  mind  ran  upon  what  they  would  think, 
if  they  knew  of  my  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  King's 
Bench  Prison  ?  Was  there  anything  about  me  which  would 
reveal  my  proceedings  in  connexion  with  the  Micawber  fam- 
ily— all  those  pawnings,  and  sellings,  and  suppers — in  spite 
of  myself  ?    Suppose  some  of  the  boys  had  seen  me  coming 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  229 

through  Canterbury,  wayworn  and  ragged,  and  should  find 
me  out  ?  What  would  they  say,  who  made  so  light  of  money, 
if  they  could  know  how  I  scraped  my  halfpence  together,  for 
the  purchase  of  my  daily  saveloy  and  beer,  or  my  slices  of 
pudding  ?  How  would  it  affect  them,  who  were  so  innocent 
of  London  life,  and  London  streets,  to  discover  how  know- 
ing I  was  (and  was  ashamed  to  be)  in  some  of  the  meanest 
phases  of  both  !  All  this  ran  in  my  head  so  much,  on  that 
first  day  at  Doctor  Strong's,  that  I  felt  distrustful  of  my 
slightest  look  and  gesture;  shrunk  within  myself  whensoever 
I  was  approached  by  one  of  my  new  schoolfellows;  and  hur- 
ried off  the  minute  school  was  over,  afraid  of  committing 
myself  in  my  response  to  any  friendly  notice  or  advance. 

But  there  was  such  an  influence  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  old 
house,  that  when  I  knocked  at  it,  with  my  new  school-books 
under  my  arm,  I  began  to  feel  my  uneasiness  softening 
away.  As  I  went  up  to  my  airy  old  room,  the  grave  shad- 
ow of  the  staircase  seemed  to  fall  upon  my  doubts  and  fears, 
and  to  make  the  past  more  indistinct.  I  sat  there,  sturdily 
conning  my  books,  until  dinner  time  (we  were  out  of  school 
for  good  at  three) ;  and  went  down,  hopeful  of  becoming  a 
passable  sort  of  boy  yet. 

Agnes  was  in  the  drawing-room,  waiting  for  her  father, 
who  was  detained  by  some  one  in  his  office.  She  met  me 
with  her  pleasant  smile,  and  asked  me  how  I  liked  the 
school.  I  told  her  I  should  like  it  very  much,  I  hoped;  but 
I  was  a  little  strange  to  it  at  first. 

"  You  have  never  been  to  school,'-'  I  said,  "  have  you  ?" 

*'  Oh,  yes!     Every  day." 

"  Ah,  but  you  mean  here,  at  your  own  home." 

"  Papa  couldn't  spare  me  to  go  anywhere  else,"  she  ans- 
wered, smiling  and  shaking  her  head.  "His  housekeeper 
must  be  in  his  house,  you  know." 

"  He  is  very  fond  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  I  said. 

She  nodded  "  Yes,"  and  went  to  the  door  to  listen  for 
his  coming  up,  that  she  might  meet  him  on  the  stairs.  But, 
as  he  was  not  there,  she  came  back  again. 

"  Mamma  has  been  dead  ever  since  I  was  born,"  she  said, 
in  her  quiet  way.  "  I  only  know  her  picture,  down  stains. 
I  saw  you  looking  at  it  yesterday.  Did  you  think  whose  xt 
was  ?" 

I  told  her  yes,  because  it  was  so  like  herself. 

"  Papa  says  so,  too,"  said  Agnes,  pleased.  "  Hark!  That's 
papa  now!" 


230  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Her  bright  calm  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure  as  she  went 
to  meet  him,  and  as  they  came  in,  hand  in  hand.  He 
greeted  me  cordially;  and  told  me  I  should  certainly  be 
happy  under  Dr.  Strong,  who  was  one  of  the  gentlest  of 
men. 

"  There  may  be  some,  perhaps — I  don't  know  that  there 
are — who  abuse  his  kindness,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "Never 
be  one  of  those,  Trotwood,  in  anything.  He  is  the  least 
suspicious  of  mankind  ;  and  whether  that's  a  merit,  or 
whether  it's  a  blemish,  it  deserves  consideration  in  all  deal- 
ings with  the  Doctor,  great  or  small." 

He  spoke,  I  thought,  as  if  he  were  weary,  or  dissatisfied 
with  something;  but  I  did  not  pursue  the  question  in  my 
mind,  for  dinner  was  just  then  announced,  and  we  went 
down  and  took  the  same  seats  as  before. 

We  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  Uriah  Heep  put  in  his 
red  head  and  his  lank  hand  at  the  door,  and  said: 

"  Here's  Mr.  Maldon  begs  the  favor  of  a  word,  sir." 

"  I  am  but  this  moment  quit  of  Mr.  Maldon,"  said  hig 
master. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Uriah;  "but  Mr.  Maldon  has  come 
back,  and  he  begs  the  favor  of  a  word." 

As  he  held  the  door  open  with  his  hand,  Uriah  looked  at 
me,  and  looked  at  Agnes,  and  looked  at  the  dishes,  and 
looked  at  the  plates,  and  looked  at  every  object  in  the  room, 
I  thought, — yet  seemed  to  look  at  nothing;  he  made  such 
an  appearance  all  the  while  of  keeping  his  red  eyes  dutifully 
on  his  master. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  It's  only  to  say,  on  reflection,"  ob- 
served a  voice  behind  Uriah,  as  Uriah's  head  was  pushed  away, 
and  the  speaker's  substituted — "pray,  excuse  me  for  this  in- 
trusion— that  as  it  seems  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter,  the 
sooner  I  go  abroad,  the  better.  My  cousin  Annie  did  say, 
when  we  talked  of  it,  that  she  liked  to  have  her  friends 
within  reach  rather  than  to  have  them  banished,  and  the  old 
Doctor " 


"  Doctor  Strong,  was  that  ?"  Mr.  Wickfield  interposed, 
gravely. 

"  Doctor  Strong,  of  course,"  returned  the  other;  "  I  cali 
him  the  old  Doctor — it's  all  the  same,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'*  Well,  Doctor  Strong,"  said  the  other — "  Doctor  Strong 
was  of  the  same  mind,  I  believed.     But  as  it  appears  from 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  231 

the  course  you  take  with  me,  that  he  has  changed  his 
mind,  why  there's  no  more  to  be  said,  except  that  the 
sooner  I  am  off,  the  better.  Therefore,  I  thought  I'd  come 
back  and  say,  that  the  sooner  I  am  off,  the  better.  When 
a  plunge  is  to  be  made  into  the  water,  it's  of  no  use  linger- 
ing on  the  bank." 

**  There  shall  be  as  little  lingering  as  possible  in  your 
case,  Mr.  Maldon,  you  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  Mr. 
Wickfield. 

"  Thank'ee,"  said  the  other.  "  Much  obliged.  I  don't 
want  to  look  a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth,  which  is  not  a  gra- 
cious thing  to  do;  otherwise,  I  dare  say,  my  cousin  Annie 
could  easily  arrange  it  in  her  own  way.  I  suppose  Annie 
would  only  have  to  say  to  the  old  Doctor " 

"  Meaning  that  Mrs.  Strong  would  only  have  to  say  to  her 
husband — do  I  follow  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

"Quite  so,"  returned  the  other,  " — would  only  have  to 
say,  that  she  wanted  such  and  such  a  thing  to  be  so  and  so; 
and  it  would  be  so  and  so,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"And  why  as  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Maldon!"  asked 
Mr.  Wickfield,  sedately  eating  his  dinner. 

"  Why,  because  Annie's  a  charming  young  girl,  and  the 
old  Doctor — Doctor  Strong,  I  mean — is  not  quite  a  charm- 
ing young  boy,"  said  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  laughing.  "  No 
offense  to  anybody,  Mr.  Wickfield.  I  only  mean  that  I  sup- 
pose some  compensation  is  fair  and  reasonable,  in  that  sort 
of  marriage." 

"Compensation  to  the  lady,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Wickfield 
gravely. 

"  To  the  lady,  sir,"  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  answered,  laughing. 
But  appearing  to  remark  that  Mr.  Wickfield  went  on  with 
his  dinner  in  the  same  sedate,  immovable  manner,  and  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  making  him  relax  a  muscle  of  his  face, 
he  added : 

"  However,  I  have  said  what  I  came  back  to  say,  and,  with 
another  apology  for  this  intrusion,  I  may  take  myself  off.  Of 
course  I  shall  observe  your  directions,  in  considering  the 
matter  as  one  to  be  arranged  between  you  and  me  solely, 
and  not  to  be  referred  to,  up  at  the  Doctor's." 

"  Have  you  dined  ?"  asked  Mr.  Wickfield,  with  a  motion 
of  his  hand  towards  the  table. 

"  Thank'ee.  I  am  going  to  dine,"  said  Mr.  Maldon,  "  with 
my  cousin  Annie.      Good-by  !  " 


232  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Wickfield,  without  rising,  looked  after  him  thought- 
fully as  he  went  out.  He  was  rather  a  shallow  sort  of  young 
gentleman,  I  thought,  with  a  handsome  face,  a  rapid  utter- 
ance, and  a  confident,  bold  air.  And  this  was  the  first  I 
ever  saw  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  ;  whom  I  had  not  expected  to 
see  so  soon,  when  I  heard  the  Doctor  speak  of  him  that 
morning. 

When  we  had  dined,  we  went  up-stairs  again,  where  every- 
thing went  on  exactly  as  on  the  previous  day.  Agnes  set 
the  glasses  and  decanters  in  the  same  corner,  and  Mr. 
Wickfield  sat  down  to  drink,  and  drank  a  good  deal.  Agnes 
played  the  piano  to  him,  sat  by  him,  and  worked  and  talked, 
and  played  some  games  at  dominos  with  me.  In  good  time 
she  made  tea  ;  and  afterwards,  when  I  brought  down  my 
books,  looked  into  them,  and  showed  me  what  she  knew  of 
them  (which  was  no  slight  matter,  though  she  said  it  was), 
and  what  was  the  best  way  to  learn  and  understand  them. 
I  see  her,  with  her  modest,  orderly,  placid  manner,  and  I 
hear  her  beautiful  calm  voice,  as  I  write  these  words.  The 
influence  for  all  good,  which  she  came  to  exercise  over  me 
at  a  later  time,  begins  already  to  descend  upon  my  breast.  I 
love  little  Em'ly,  and  I  don't  love  Agnes — no,  not  at  all  in 
that  way — but  I  feel  that  there  are  goodness,  peace,  and 
truth,  wherever  Agnes  is  ;  and  that  the  soft  light  of  the 
colored  window  in  the  church,  seen  long  ago,  falls  on  her 
always,  and  on  me  when  I  am  near  her,  and  on  everything 
around. 

The  time  having  come  for  her  withdrawal  for  the  night, 
and  she  having  left  us,  I  gave  Mr.  Wickfield  my  hand,  pre- 
paratory to  going  away  myself.  But  he  checked  me  and 
said  :  "  Should  you  like  to  stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  or  to  go 
elsewhere  ?" 

"  To  stay,"  I  answered,  quickly. 

*'  You  are  sure  ?" 

"  If  you  please.     If  I  may  !" 

"  Why,  it's  but  a  dull  life  that  we  lead  here,  boy,  I  am 
afraid,"  he  said. 

"  Not  more  dull  for  me  than  Agnes,  sir.  Not  dull  at  all  !" 

"Than  Agnes,"  he  repeated,  walking  to  the  great  chimney 
piece,  and  leaning  against  it.     "  Than  Agnes  !" 

He  had  drunk  wine  that  evening  (or  I  fancied  it)  until 
his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  Not  that  I  could  see  them  now, 
for  they  were  cast  down,  and  shaded  by  his  hand  ;  but  I  had 
noticed  them  a  little  while  before. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  233 

"  Now  1  wonder,"  he  muttered,  "  whether  my  Agnes  tires 
of  me.  When  should  I  ever  tire  of  her  !  But  that's  dif- 
ferent— that's  quite  different." 

He  was  musing — not  speaking  to  me  ;  so  I  remained  quiet. 

"  A  dull  old  house,"  he  said,  "  and  a  monotonous  life  ; 
but  I  must  have  her  near  me.  I  must  keep  her  near  me.  If 
the  thought  that  I  may  die  and  leave  my  darling,  and  that 
my  darling  may  die  and  leave  me,  comes,  like  a  spectre,  to 
distress  my  happiest  hours,  and  is  only  to  be  drowned  in " 

He  did  not  supply  the  word;  but  pacing  slowly  to  the 
place  where  he  had  sat,  and  mechanically  going  through  the 
action  of  pouring  wine  from  the  empty  decanter,  set  it 
down  and  paced  back  again. 

"  If  it  is  miserable  to  bear  when  she  is  here,"  he  said, 
"  what  would  it  be,  and  she  away  ?  No,  no,  no.  I  can  not 
try  that." 

He  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  brooding  so  long 
that  I  could  not  decide  whether  to  run  the  risk  of  disturb- 
ing him  by  going,  or  to  remain  quietly  where  I  was,  until 
he  should  come  out  of  his  reverie.  At  length  he  aroused 
himself,  and  looked  about  the  room  until  his  eyes  encoun- 
tered mine. 

"  Stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  eh  ?"  he  said,  in  his  usual  man- 
ner, and  as  if  he  were  answering  something  I  had  just  said. 
"  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  are  company  to  us  both.  It  is 
'wholesome  to  have  you  here.  Wholesome  for  me,  whole- 
some for  Agnes,  wholesome  perhaps  for  all  of  us." 

*'  I  am  sure  it  is  for  me,  sir,"  I  said.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  be 
here." 

"  That's  a  fine  fellow  !"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  As  long  as 
you  are  glad  to  be  here,  you  shall  stay  here."  He  shook 
hands  with  me  upon  it,  and  clapped  me  on  the  back  ;  and 
told  me  that  when  I  had  anything  to  do  at  night  after  Ag- 
nes had  left  us,  or  when  I  wished  to  read  for  my  own  pleas- 
ure, I  was  free  to  come  to  his  room,  if  he  were  there  and  if 
I  desired  it  for  company's  sake,  and  to  sit  with  him.  I 
thanked  him  for  his  consideration  ;  and,  as  he  went  down 
soon  afterwards,  and  I  was  not  tired,  went  down  too,  with  a 
book  in  my  hand,  to  avail  myself,  for  half-an-hour,  of  his 
permission. 

But,  seeing  a  light  in  the  little  round  ofifice,  and  immedi- 
ately feeling  myself  attracted  towards  Uriah  Heep,  who  had 
a   sort  of   fascination  for  me^  I  went  in  there   instead.     I 


234  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

found  Uriah  reading  a  great  fat  book,  with  such  demonstra- 
tive attention,  that  his  lank  fore-finger  followed  up  every 
line  as  he  read,  and  made  clammy  tracks  along  the  page  (or 
so  I  fully  believed)  like  a  snail. 

"  You  are  working  late  to-night,  Uriah,"  says  I. 

"  Yes,  Master  Copperfield,"  says  Uriah. 

As  I  was  getting  on  the  stool  opposite,  to  talk  to  him 
more  conveniently,  I  observed  that  he  had  not  such  a  thing 
as  a  smile  about  him,  and  that  he  could  only  widen  his 
mouth  and  make  two  hard  creases  down  his  cheeks,  one  on 
each  side,  to  stand  for  one. 

"I  am  not  doing  office-work,  Master  Copperfield,"  said 
Uriah. 

"  What  work,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  am  improving  my  legal  knowledge.  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah.  "  I  am  going  through  Tidd's  Practice. 
Oh,  what  a  writer  Mr.  Tidd  is.  Master  Copperfield  !" 

My  stool  was  such  a  tower  of  observation,  that  as  I 
watched  him  reading  on  again,  after  this  rapturous  excla- 
mation, and  following  up  the  lines  with  his  fore-finger,  I  ob- 
served that  his  nostrils,  which  were  thin  and  pointed  with 
sharp  dints  in  them,  had  a  singular  and  most  uncomfortable 
w^ay  of  expanding  and  contracting  themselves — that  they 
seemed  to  twinkle,  instead  of  his  eyes,  which  hardly  ever 
twinkled  at  all. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  quite  a  great  lawyer  ?"  I  said  after^ 
looking  at  him  for  some  time. 

"  Me,  Master  Copperfield  ?"  said  Uriah.  "  Oh,  no  !  I'm 
a  very  umble  person." 

It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands,  I  observed  ;  for 
he  frequently  ground  the  palms  against  each  other  as  if  to 
squeeze  them  dry  and  warm,  besides  often  wiping  them,  in 
a  stealthy  way,  on  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  I  am  well  aware  that  I  am  the  umblest  person  going," 
said  Uriah  Heep,  modestly  ;  "  let  the  other  be  where  he 
may.  My  mother  is  likewise  a  very  umble  person.  We  live 
in  an  umble  abode.  Master  Copperfield,  but  have  much  to 
to  be  thankful  for.  My  father's  former  calling  was  umble. 
He  was  a  sexton." 

"  What  is  he  now  ?"  I  asked. 

"  He  is  a  partaker  of  glory  at  present,  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah  Heep.  *'  But  we  have  much  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for,  in  living 
wiih  Mr.  Wickfield  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  235 

I  asked  Uriah  if  he  had  been  living  with  Mr.  Wickfield 
long? 

"  I  have  been  with  him,  going  on  four  year,  Master  Cop- 
perfield,"  said  Uriah  ;  shutting  up  his  book,  after  carefully 
marking  the  place  where  he  had  left  off.  "  Since  a  year  af- 
ter my  father's  death.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful 
for,  in  that  !  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for,  in  Mr. 
Wickfield's  kind  intention  to  give  me  my  articles,  which 
would  otherwise  not  lay  within  the  umble  means  of  mother 
and  self  !*' 

"  Then,  when  your  articled  time  is  over,  you'll  be  a  regu- 
lar lawyer,  I  suppose  ?"  said  I. 

"  With  the  blessing  of  Providence,  Master  Copperfield," 
returned  Uriah. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  be  a  partner  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  business, 
one  of  these  days,"  I  said,  to  make  myself  agreeable,  "  and 
it  will  be  Wickfield  and  Heep,  or  Heep,  late  Wickfield." 

"  Oh,  no,  Master  Copperfield,"  returned  Uriah,  shaking 
his  head.     "  I  am  much  too  umble  for  that  !" 

He  certainly  did  look  uncommonly  like  the  carved  face 
on  the  beam  outside  my  window,  as  he  sat,  in  his  humility, 
eyeing  me  sideways,  with  his  mouth  widened,  and  the  creases 
in  his  cheeks. 

"  Mr.  Wickfield  is  a  most  excellent  man,  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah.  "  If  you  have  known  him  long,  you 
know  it,  I  am  sure,  much  better  than  I  can  inform  you." 

I  replied  that  I  was  certain  he  was  ;  but  that  I  had  not 
known  him  long  myself,  though  he  was  a  friend  of  my  aunt's. 

"  Oh,  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah.  "  Your 
aunt  is  a  sweet  lady.  Master  Copperfield!" 

He  had  a  way  of  writhing  when  he  wanted  to  express  en- 
thusiasm, which  was  very  ugly  ;  and  which  diverted  my  at- 
tention from  the  compliment  he  had  paid  my  relation,  to  the 
snaky  twistings  of  his  throat  and  body. 

"A  sweet  lady.  Master  Copperfield!"  said  Uriah  Heep. 
"  She  has  a  great  admiration  for  Miss  Agnes,  Master  Cop- 
perfield, I  believe  1" 

I  said  "  Yes,"  boldly  ;  not  that  I  knew^nything  about  it, 
Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

"  I  hope  you  have,  too.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah. 
"  But  I  am  sure  you  must  have." 

"  Everybody  must  have,"  I  returned. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah  Heep, 


236  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  for  that  remark  !  It  is  so  true  !  Umble  as  I  am,  1  know 
it  is  so  true  !     Oh,  thank  you,  Master  Copperfield  !" 

He  writhed  himself  quite  off  his  stool  in  the  excitement 
of  his  feelings,  and  being  off,  began  to  make  arrangements 
for  going  home. 

"  Mother  will  be  expecting  me,"  he  said,  referring  to  a 
pale,  inexpressive-faced  watch  in  his  pocket,  ''  and  getting 
uneasy  ;  for  though  we  are  very  umble,  Master  Copperfield, 
we  are  much  attached  to  one  another.  If  you  would  come 
and  see  us,  any  afternoon,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  at  our  lowly 
dwelling,  mother  would  be  as  proud  of  your  company  as  1 
should  be." 

I  said  I  should  be  glad  to  come. 

"  Thank  you.  Master  Copperfield,"  returned  Uriah,  put- 
ting his  book  away  upon  a  shelf — "  I  suppose  you  stop  here, 
some  time,  Master  Copperfield  ?" 

I  said  I  was  going  to  be  brought  up  there,  I  believed,  as 
long  as  I  remained  at  school. 

"  Oh,  indeed  !"  exclaimed  Uriah.  "  I  should  think  you 
would  come  into  the  business  at  last,  Master  Copperfield !" 

I  protested  that  I  had  no  views  of  that  sort,  and  that  no 
such  scheme  was  entertained  in  my  behalf  by  anybody  ;  but 
Uriah  insisted  on  blandly  replying  to  all  my  assurances, 
**  Oh,  yes.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should  think  you  would  in- 
deed !"  and,  "  Oh,  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should  think 
you  would,  certainly  !"  over  and  over  again.  Being,  at  last, 
ready  to  leave  the  office  for  the  night,  he  asked  me  if  it  would 
suit  my  convenience  to  have  the  light  put  out  ;  and  on  my 
answering  "  Yes,"  instantly  extinguished  it.  After  shaking 
hands  with  me — his  hand  felt  like  a  fish  in  the  dark — he 
opened  the  door  into  the  street  a  very  little,  and  crept  out, 
and  shut  it,  leaving  me  to  grope  my  way  back  into  the  house; 
which  cost  me  some  trouble  and  a  fall  over  his  stool.  This 
was  the  proximate  cause,  I  suppose,  of  my  dreaming  about 
him,  for  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  half  the  night  ;  and 
dreaming,  among  other  things,  that  he  had  launched  Mr. 
Peggotty's  house  on  a  piratical  expedition  with  a  black  flag 
at  the  mast-head,  bearing  the  inscription  "  Tidd's  Practice," 
under  which  diabolical  ensign  he  was  carrying  me  and  little 
Em'ly  to  the  Spanish  Main  to  be  drowned. 

I  got  a  little  the  better  of  my  uneasiness  when  I  went  to 
school  next  day,  and  a  good  deal  better  the  next  day,  and  so 
shook  it  off  by  degrees  that  in  less  than  a  fortnight  I  was 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  237 

quite  at  home,  and  happy,  among  my  new  companions.  I^ 
was  awkward  enough  in  their  games,  and  backward  enough 
in  their  studies;  but  custom  would  improve  me  in  the  first 
respect,  I  hoped,  and  hard  work  in  the  second.  Accordingly, 
I  v/ent  to  work  very  hard,  both  in  play  and  in  earnest,  and 
gained  great  commendation.  And,  in  a  very  little  while,  the 
Murdstone  and  Grinby  life  became  so  strange  to  me  that  I 
hardly  believed  in  it,  while  my  present  life  grew  so  familiar, 
that  I  seemed  to  have  been  leading  it  a  long  time. 

Doctor  Strong's  was  an  excellent  school;  as  different  from 
Mr,  Creakle's  as  good  is  from  evil.  It  was  very  gravely  and 
decorously  ordered,  and  on  a  sound  system;  with  an  appeal, 
in  everything,  to  the  honor  and  good  faith  of  the  boys,  and 
an  avowed  intention  to  rely  on  their  possession  of  those 
qualities  unless  they  proved  themselves  unworthy  of  it,  which 
worked  wonders.  We  all  felt  that  we  had  a  part  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  place,  and  in  sustaining  its  character  and  dig- 
nity. Hence,  we  soon  became  warmly  attached  to  it — I  am 
sure  I  did  for  one,  and  I  never  knew,  in  all  my  time,  of  any 
other  boy  being  otherwise — and  learned  with  a  good  will, 
desiring  to  do  it  credit.  We  had  noble  games  out  of  hours, 
and  plenty  of  liberty;  but  even  then,  as  I  remember,  we 
were  well  spoken  of  in  the  town,  and  rarely  did  any  disgrace, 
by  our  appearance  or  manner,  to  the  reputation  of  Doctor 
Strong  and  Doctor  Strong's  boys. 

Some  of  the  higher  scholars  boarded  in  the  Doctor's  house, 
and  through  them  I  learned,  at  second  hand,  some  particu- 
lars of  the  Doctor's  history — as  how  he  had  not  yet  been  mar- 
ried twelve  months  to  the  beautiful  young  lady  I  had  seen 
in  the  study,  whom  he  had  married  for  love  ;  as  she  had  not 
a  sixpence,  and  had  a  world  of  poor  relations  (so  our  fellows 
said)  ready  to  swarm  the  Doctor  out  of  house  and  home. 
Also,  how  the  Doctor's  cogitating  manner  was  attributable 
to  his  being  always  engaged  in  looking  out  for  Greek  roots  ; 
which,  in  my  innocence  and  ignorance,  I  supposed  to  be  a 
botanical  furor  on  the  Doctor's  part,  especially  as  he  always 
looked  at  the  ground  when  he  walked  about — until  I  under- 
stood that  they  were  roots  of  words,  with  a  view  to  a  new 
dictionary  which  he  had  in  contemplation.  Adams,  our 
head-boy,  who  had  a  turn  for  mathematics,  had  made  a  cal- 
culation, I  was  informed,  of  the  time  this  dictionary  would 
take  in  completing,  on  the  Doctor's  plan,  and  at  the  Doctor's 
rate  of  going.     He  considered  that  it  might  be  done  in  one 


2sS  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

thousand  six  hundred  and  forty-nine  years,  counting  from 
the  Doctor's  last,  or  sixty-second,  birthday. 

But  the  Doctor  himself  was  the  idol  of  the  whole  school; 
and  it  must  have  been  a  badly  composed  school  if  he  had 
been  anything  else,  for  he  was  the  kindest  of  men,  with  a 
simple  faith  in  him  that  might  have  touched  the  stone  hearts 
of  the  very  urns  upon  the  walls.  As  he  walked  up  and  down 
that  part  of  the  court-yard  which  was  at  the  side  of  the 
house,  with  the  stray  rooks  and  jackdaws  looking  after  him 
with  their  heads  cocked  slyly,  as  if  they  knew  how  much 
more  knowing  they  were  in  worldly  affairs  than  he,  if  any 
sort  of  vagabond  could  only  get  near  enough  to  his  creaking 
shoes  to  attract  his  attention  to  one  sentence  of  a  tale  of  dis- 
tress, that  vagabond  was  made  for  the  next  two  days.  It  was 
so  notorious  in  the  house,  that  the  masters  and  head-boys 
took  pains  to  cut  these  marauders  off  at  angles,  and  to  get 
out  of  windows,  to  turn  them  out  of  the  court-yard,  before 
they  could  make  the  Doctor  aware  of  their  presence;  which 
was  sometimes  happily  effected  within  a  few  yards  of  him, 
without  his  knowing  anything  of  the  matter,  as  he  jogged  to 
and  fro.  Outside  his  own  domain,  and  unprotected,  he  was 
a  very  easy  sheep  for  the  shearers.  He  would  have  taken 
his  gaiters  off  his  legs,  to  give  away.  In  fact,  there  was  a 
story  current  among  us  (I  have  no  idea,  and  never  had,  on 
what  authority,  but  I  have  believed  it  for  so  many  years  that 
I  feel  quite  certain  it  is  true),  that  on  a  frosty  day,  one  win- 
ter time,  he  actually  did  bestow  his  gaiters  on  a  beggar- 
woman,  who  occasioned  some  scandal  in  the  neighborhood 
by  exhibiting  a  fine  infant  from  door  to  door:  wrapped  in. 
those  garments,  which  were  universally  recognized,  being  as 
well  known  in  the  vicinity  as  the  cathedral.  The  legend 
added  that  the  only  person  who  did  not  identify  them  was 
the  Doctor  himself,  who,  when  they  were  shortly  afterwards 
displayed  at  the  door  of  a  little  second-hand  shop  of  no  very 
good  repute,  where  such  things  were  taken  in  exchange  for 
gin,  was  more  than  once  observed  to  handle  them  approv- 
ingly, as  if  admiring  some  curious  novelty  in  the  pattern,  and 
considering  them  an  improvement  on  his  own. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  see  the  Doctor  with  his  pretty 
young  wife.  He  had  a  fatherly,  benignant  way  of  showing 
his  fondness  for  her,  which  seemed  in  itself  to  express  a 
good  man.  I  often  saw  them  walking  in  the  garden  where 
the  peaches  were,  and  I  sometimes  had  a  nearer  observation 
of  them  in  the  study  or  the  parlor.     She  appeared  to  me  to 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  239 

take  great  care  of  the  D(5ctor,  and  to  like  him  very  much, 
though  I  never  thought  her  vitally  interested  in  the  Dic- 
tionary :  some  cumbrous  fragments  of  which  work  the  Doctor 
always  carried  in  his  pockets,  and  in  the  lining  of  his  hat, 
and  generally  seemed  to  be  expounding  to  her  as  they  walked 
about.  * 

I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Strong,  both  because  she  had 
taken  a  liking  for  me  on  the  morning  of  my  introduction  to 
the  Doctor,  and  was  always  afterwards  kind  to  me,  and  in- 
terested in  me  ;  and  because  she  was  very  fond  of  Agnes, 
and  was  often  backwards  and  forwards  at  our  house.  There 
was  a  curious  constraint  between  her  and  Mr.  Wickfield,  I 
thought  (of  whom  she  seemed  to  be  afraid),  that  never  wore 
off.  When  she  came  there  of  an  evening,  she  always  shrunk 
from  accepting  his  escort  home,  and  ran  away  with  me  in- 
stead. And  sometimes,  as  we  were  running  gaily  across  the 
cathedral  yard  together,  expecting  to  meet  nobody,  we 
would  meet  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  who  was  always  surprised  to 
see  us. 

Mrs.  Strong's  mamma  was  a  lady  I  took  great  delight  in. 
Her  name  was  Mrs.  Markleham  ;  but  our  boys  used  to  call 
her  the  Old  Soldier,  on  account  of  her  generalship,  and  the 
skill  with  which  she  marshaled  great  forces  of  relations 
against  the  Doctor.  She  was  a  little,  sharp-eyed  woman, 
who  used  to  wear,  when  she  was  dressed,  one  unchangeable 
cap,  ornamented  with  some  artificial  flowers,  and  two  artifi- 
cial butterflies  supposed  to  be  hovering  above  the  flowers. 
There  was  a  superstition  among  us  that  this  cap  had  come 
from  France,  and  could  only  originate  in  the  workmanship 
of  that  ingenious  nation  :  but  all  I  certainly  know  about 
it,  is,  that  it  always  made  its  appearance  of  an  evening; 
wheresoever  Mrs.  Markleham  made  her  appearance  ;  that  it 
was  carried  about  to  friendly  meetings  in  a  Hindoo  basket  ; 
that  the  butterflies  had  the  gift  of  trembling  constantly  ; 
and  that  they  improved  the  shining  hours  at  Doctor  Strong's 
expense,  like  busy  bees. 

I  observed  the  Old  Soldier — not  to  adopt  the  name  dis- 
respectfully— to  pretty  good  advantage,  on  a  night  which  is 
made  memorable  to  me  by  something  else  I  shall  relate.  It 
was  the  night  of  a  little  party  at  the  Doctor's,  which  was 
given  on  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  departure  for 
India,  whither  he  was  going  as  a  cadet,  or  something  of  that 
kind  :  Mr.  Wickfield  having  at  length  arranged  the  business. 
It_happened  to  be  the  Doctor's  birthday,  too.    We  had  a 


240  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

holiday,  had  made  presents  to  ,him  in  the  morning,  had 
made  a  speech  through  the  head-boy,  and  had  cheered  him 
until  we  were  hoarse,  and  -until  he  had  shed  tears.  And 
now,  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Wickfield,  Agnes,  and  I,  went  to 
have  tea  with  him  in  his  private  capacity. 

Mr.  Jack  Maldon  was  there,  before  us.  Mrs.  Strong, 
dressed  in  white,  with  cherry-colored  ribbons,  was  playing 
the  piano,  when  we  went  in  ;  and  he  was  leaning  over  her  to 
turn  the  leaves.  The  clear  red  and  white  of  her  complex- 
ion was  not  so  blooming  and  flower-like  as  usual,  I  thought, 
when  she  turned  round  ;  but  she  looked  very  pretty,  won- 
derfully pretty. 

**  I  have  forgotten.  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Strong's  mamma, 
when  we  were  seated,  "  to  pay  you  the  compliments  of  the 
day — though  they  are,  as  you  may  suppose,  very  far  from 
being  mere  compliments  in  my  case.  Allow  me  to  wish  you 
many  happy  returns." 

"  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

**  Many,  many,  many,  happy  returns,"  said  the  Old 
Soldier.  "  Not  only  for  your  own  sake,  but  for  Annie's, 
and  John  Maldon's,  and  many  other  people's.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  to  me,  John,  when  you  were  a  little  creature,  a 
head  shorter  than  Master  Copperfield,  making  baby-love  to 
Annie  behind  the  gooseberry  bushes  in  the  back  garden." 

*'  My  dear  mamma,"  said  Mrs.  Strong,  "never  mind  that 
now." 

*'  Annie,  don't  be  absurd,"  returned  her  mother.  "  If 
you  are  to  blush  to  hear  of  such  things,  now  you  are  an  old 
married  woman,  when  are  you  not  to  blush  to  hear  of  them  ?'* 

''  Old  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jack  Maldon.    *'  Annie  ?  Come  !" 

"  Yes,  John,"  returned  the  Soldier.  *'  Virtually,  an  old 
married  woman.  Although  not  old  by  years — for  when  did 
you  ever  hear  me  say,  or  who  has  ever  heard  me  say,  that  a 
girl  of  twenty  was  old  by  years  ! — your  cousin  is  the  wife  of 
the  Doctor,  and,  as  such,  what  I  have  described  her.  It  is 
well  for  you,  John,  that  your  cousin  is  the  wife  of  the 
Doctor.  You  have  found  in  him  an  influential  and  kind  friend, 
who  will  be  kinder  yet,  I  venture  to  predict,  if  you  deserve 
it.  I  have  no  false  pride.  I  never  hesitate  to  admit,  frankly, 
that  there  are  some  members  of  our  family  who  want  a 
friend.  You  were  one  yourself,  before  your  cousin's  in- 
fluence raised  up  one  for  you." 

The  Doctor,  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  waved  his  hand 
as  if  to  make  light  of  it,  and  save  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  from 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  241 

any  further  reminder.  But  Mrs.  Markleham  changed  her 
chair  for  one  next  the  Doctor's,  and  putting  her  fan  on  his 
coat-sleeve,  said: 

"  No,  really,  my  dear  Doctor,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I 
appear  to  dwell  on  this  rather,  because  I  feel  so  very 
strongly.  I  call  it  quite  my  monomania,  it  is  such  a  sub- 
ject of  mine.  You  are  a  blessing  to  us.  You  really  are  a 
boon,  you  know." 

*'  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  No,  no,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  retorted  the  Old  Soldier. 
"  With  nobqdy  present,  but  our  dear  and  confidential  friend 
Mr.  Wickfield,  I  cannot  consent  to  be  put  down.  I  shall 
begin  to  assert  the  privileges  of  a  mother-in-law,  if  you 
go  on  like  that,  and  scold  you.  I  am  perfectly  honest 
and  out-spoken.  What  I  am  saying,  is  what  I  said  when 
you  first  overpowered  me  with  surprise — you  remember 
how  surprised  I  was  ? — by  proposing  for  Annie.  Not  that 
there  was  anything  so  very  much  out  of  the  way,  in  the 
mere  act  of  the  proposal — it  would  be  ridiculous  to  say 
that! — but  b'ecause,  you  having  known  her  poor  father,  and 
having  known  her  from  a  baby  six  months  old,  I  hadn't 
thought  of  you  in  such  a  light  at  all,  or  indeed  as  a  marry- 
ing man  in  any  way, — simply  that,  you  know." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  returned  the  Doctor,  good-humoredly.  "  Nev- 
er mind." 

"  But  I  do  mind,"  said  the  Old  Soldier,  laying  her  fan 
upon  his  lips.  "  I  mind  very  much.  I  recall  these  things 
that  I  may  be  contradicted  if  I  am  wrong.  Well!  Then 
I  spoke  to  Annie,  and  I  told  her  what  had  happened.  I  said, 
*  My  dear,  here's  Doctor  Strong  has  positively  been  and 
made  you  the  subject  of  a  handsome  declaration  and  an 
offer.'  Did  I  press  it  in  the  least  1  No.  I  said,  *  Now, 
Annie,  tell  me  the  truth  this  moment;  is  your  heart  free  ?' 
'  Mamma,'  she  said,  crying,  '  I  am  extremely  young  ' — which 


an  agitated  state  of  mind,  and  must  be  answered.  He  can- 
not be  kept  in  his  present  state  of  suspense.'  *  Mamma,'  said 
Annie,  still  crying,  '  would  he  be  unhappy  without  me  ?  If 
he  would,  I  honor  and  respect  him  so  much,  that  I  think  I 
will  have  him.'  So  it  was  settled.  And  then,  and  not  till 
then,  I  said  to  Annie,  '  Annie,  Doctor  Strong  will  not  only 
be  your  husband,  but  he  will  represent  your  late  father:  he 


H2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

will  represent  the  head  of  our  family;  he  will  represent  the 
wisdom  and  station,  and  I  may  say  the  means,  of  our  family; 
and  he  will  be,  in  short,  a  boon  to  it.*  I  used  the  word  at 
the  time,  and  I  have  used  it  again,  to-day.  If  I  have  any 
merit,  it  is  consistency." 

The  daughter  had  sat  quite  silent  and  still  during  this 
speech,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground;  her  cousin  stand- 
ing near,  and  looking  on  the  ground,  too.  She  now  said 
very  softly,  in  a  trembling  voice: 

"  Mamma,  I  hope  you  have  finished  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  Annie,"  returned  the  Soldier,  **  I  have  not 
quite  finished.  Since  you  ask  me,  my  love,  I  reply  that  I  have 
no^.  I  complain  that  you  really  are  a  little  unnatural  towards 
your  own  family;  and,  as  it  is  of  no  use  complaining  to 
you,  I  mean  to  complain  to  your  husband.  Now,  my  dear 
Doctor,  do  look  at  that  silly  wife  of  yours." 

As  the  Doctor  turned  his  kind  face,  with  its  smile  of  sim- 
plicity and  gentleness,  towards  her,  she  drooped  her  head 
more.     I  noticed  that  Mr.  Wickfieid  looked  at.her  steadily. 

"  When  I  happened  to  say  to  that  naughty  thing,  the  other 
day,"  pursued  her  mother,  shaking  her  head  and  fan  at  her, 
playfully,  "  that  there  was  a  family  circumstance  she  might 
mention  to  you — indeed,  I  think,  was  bound  to  mention — 
she  said,  that  to  mention  it  was  to  ask  a  favor;  and  that,  as 
you  were  too  generous,  and  as  for  her  to  ask  was  always  to 
have,  she  wouldn't." 

"  Annie,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  That  was  wrong. 
It  robbed  me  of  a  pleasure." 

"Almost  the  very  words  I  said  to  her!"  exclaimed  her 
mother.  "  Now  really  another  time,  when  I  know  she  would 
tell  you  but  for  this  reason,  and  won't,  I  have  a  great  mind, 
my  dear  Doctor,  to  tell  you  myself." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  Shall  I?" 

"  Certainly." 

"Well,  then,  I  will!"  said  the  Old  Soldier.  "That's  a 
bargain."  And  having,  I  suppose,  carried  her  point,  she 
tapped  the  Doctor's  hand  several  times  with  her  fan  (which 
she  kissed  first),  and  returned  triumphantly  to  her  former 
station. 

Some  more  company  coming  in,  among  whom  were  the 
two  masters  and  Adams,  the  talk  became  general;  and  it 
naturally  turned  on  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  and  the  voyage,  and 
tJj^  f  o^ntry  he  was  gping  to,  and  his  various  plans  and  pros- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  2^43 

pects.  He  was  to  leave  that  night,  after  supper,  in  a  post- 
chaise,  for  Gravesend;  where  the  ship,  in  which  he  was  to 
make  the  voyage,  lay;  and  was  to  be  gone — unless  he  came 
home  on  leave,  or  for  his  health — I  don't  know  how  many 
years.  I  recollect  it  was  settled  by  general  consent  that  In- 
dia was  quite  a  misrepresented  country,  and  had  nothing 
objectionable  in  it  but  a  tiger  or  two,  and  a  little  heat  in 
the  warm  part  of  the  day.  For  my  own  part,  I  looked  on 
Mr.  Jack  Maldon  as  a  modern  Sinbad,  and  pictured  him  the 
bosom  friend  of  all  the  Rajahs  in  the  east,  sitting  under 
canopies,  smoking  curly  golden  pipes — a  mile  long,  if  they 
could  be  straightened  out. 

Mrs.  Strong  was  a  very  pretty  singer;  as  I  knew,  who  often 
heard  her  singing  by  herself.  But  whether  she  was  afraid  of 
singing  before  people,  or  was  out  of  voice  that  evening,  it 
was  certain  that  she  couldn't  sing  at  all.  She  tried  a  duet, 
once,  with  her  cousin  Maldon,  but  could  not  so  much  as  be- 
gin; and  afterwards,  when  she  tried  to  sing  by  herself,  al- 
though she  began  sweetly,  her  voice  died  away  on  a  sudden, 
and  left  her  quite  distressed,  with  her  head  hanging  down 
over  the  keys.  The  good  Doctor  said  she  was  nervous,  and, 
to  relieve  her,  proposed  a  round  game  at  cards;  of  which  he 
knew  as  much  as  of  the  art  of  playing  the  trombone.  But 
I  remarked  that  the  Old  Soldier  took  him  into  custody  di- 
rectly, for  her  partner;  and  instructed  him,  as  the  first  pre- 
liminary of  initiation,  to  give  her  all  the  silver  he  had  in  his 
pocket. 

We  had  a  merry  game,  not  made  the  less  merry  by  the 
Doctor's  mistakes,  of  which  he  committed  an  innumerable 
quantity,  in  spite  of  the  watchfulness  of  the  butterflies,  and 
to  their  great  aggravation.  Mrs.  Strong  had  declined  to 
play,  on  the  ground  of  not  feeling  very  well;  and  her  cousin 
Maldon  had  excused  himself  because  he  had  some  packing 
to  do.  When  he  had  done  it,  however,  he  returned  and  they 
sat  together,  talking,  on  the  sofa.  From  time  to  time  she 
came  and  looked  over  the  Doctor's  hand,  and  told  him  what 
to  play.  She  was  very  pale,  as  she  bent  over  him,  and  I 
thought  her  finger  trembled  as  she  pointed  out  the  cards; 
but  the  Doctor  was  quite  happy  in  her  attention,  and  took 
no  notice  of  this,  if  it  were  so. 

At  supper,  we  were  hardly  so  gay.  Every  one  appeared 
to  feel  that  a  parting  of  that  sort  was  an  awkward  thing, 
and  that  the  nearer  it  approached,  the  more  awkward  it  was. 
Mr.  Jack  Maldon  tried  to  be  very  talkative,  but  was  not  at 


244  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

his  ease,  and  made  matters  worse.  And  they  were  not  im- 
proved, as  it  appeared  to  me,  by  the  Old  Soldier:  who  con- 
tinually recalled  passages  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  youth. 

The  Doctor,  however,  who  felt,  I  am  sure,  that  he  was 
making  everybody  happy,  was  well  pleased,  and  had  no  sus- 
picion, but  that  we  were  all  at  the  utmost  height  of  enjoyment. 

"Annie,  my  dear,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  and  fill- 
ing his  glass,  "  it  is  past  your  cousin  Jack's  time,  and  we 
must  not  detain  him,  since  time  and  tide — both  concerned 
in  this  case — wait  for  no  man.  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  you  have 
a  long  voyage,  and  a  strange  country  before  you;  but  many 
men  have  had  both,  and  many  men  will  have  both,  to  the 
end  of  time.  The  winds  you  are  going  to  tempt,  have  wafted 
thousands  upon  thousands  to  fortune,  and  brought  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  happily  back." 

"  It  is  an  affecting  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Markleham — "  how- 
ever it's  viewed,  it's  affecting — to  see  a  fine  young  man  one 
has  known  from  an  infant,  going  away  to  the  other  end  of 
the  world,  leaving  all  he  knows  behind,  and  not  knowing 
what's  before  him.  A  young  man  really  well  deserves  con- 
stant support  and  patronage,"  looking  at  the  Doctor,  "who 
makes  such  sacrifices." 

"  Time  will  go  fast  with  you,  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,"  pursued 
the  Doctor,  "  and  fast  with  all  of  us.  Some  of  us  can  hardly 
expect,  perhaps,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  to  greet 
you  on  your  return.  The  next  best  thing  is  to  hope  to  do 
it,  and  that's  my  case.  I  shall  not  weary  you  with  good  ad- 
vice. You  have  long  had  a  good  model  before  you,  in  your 
cousin  Annie.     Imitate  her  virtues  as  nearly  as  you  can." 

Mrs.  Markleham  fanned  herself,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Farewell,  Mr.  Jack,"  said  the  Doctor,  standing  up;  on 
which  we  all  stood  up.  "A  prosperous  voyage  out,  a  thriv- 
ing career  abroad,  and  a  happy  return  home  !" 

We  all  drank  the  toast,  and  all  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Jack  Maldon  ;  after  which  he  hastily  took  leave  of  the 
ladies  who  were  there,  and  hurried  to  the  door,  where  he 
was  received,  as  he  got  int»  the  chaise,  with  a  tremendous 
broadside  of  cheers  discharged  by  our  boys,  who  had  as- 
sembled on  the  lawn  for  the  purpose.  Running  in  among 
them  to  swell  the  ranks,  I  was  very  near  the  chaise  when  it 
rolled  away ;  and  I  had  a  lively  impression  made  upon  me, 
in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  dust,  of  having  seen  Mr.  Jack 
Maldon  rattle  past  with  an  agitated  face,  and  something 
cherry-colored  in  his  hand. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  245 

After  another  broadside  for  the  Doctor,  and  another  for 
the  Doctor's  wife,  the  boys  dispersed,  and  I  went  back  into 
the  house,  where  I  found  the  guests  all  standing  in  a  group 
about  the  Doctor,  discussing  how  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  had 
gone  away,  and  how  he  had  borne  it,  and  how  he  had  felt  it, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  In  the  midst  of  these  remarks,  Mrs. 
Markleham  cried  :  "  Where's  Annie  ?" 

No  Annie  was  there  ;  and  when  they  called  to  her,  no 
Annie  replied.  But  all  pressing  out  of  the  room,  in  a  crowd, 
to  see  what  was  the  matter,  we  found  her  lying  on  the  hall 
floor.  There  was  great  alarm  at  first,  until  it  was  found 
that  she  was  in  a  swoon,  and  that  the  swoon  was  yielding  to 
the  usual  means  of  recovery  ;  when  the  Doctor,  who  had 
lifted  her  head  upon  his  knee,  put  her  curls  aside  with  his 
hand,  and  said,  looking  around  : 

"  Poor  Annie  !  She's  so  faithful  and  tender-hearted  !  It's 
the  parting  from  her  old  playfellow  and  friend — her  favorite 
cousin,  that  has  done  this.  Ah  !  It's  a  pity  !  I  am  very 
sorry  !" 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  where  she  was,  and 
that  we  were  all  standing  about  her,  she  arose  with  assist- 
ance :  turning  her  head,  as  she  did  so,  to  lay  it  on  the  Doc- 
tor's shoulder — or  to  hide  it,  I  don't  know  which.  We  went 
into  the  drawing-room,  to  leave  her  with  the  Doctor  and  her 
mother  ;  but  she  said,  it  seemed,  that  she  was  better  than 
she  had  been  since  morning,  and  that  she  would  rather  be 
brought  among  us  ;  so  they  brought  her  in,  looking  very 
white  and  weak,  I  thought,  and  sat  her  on  a  sofa. 

"  Annie,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  doing  something  to 
her  dress,  "  see  here  !  You  have  lost  a  bow.  Will  any  body 
be  so  good  as  to  find  a  ribbon  ;  a  cherry-colored  ribbon  ?" 

It  was  the  one  she  had  worn  at  her  bosom.  We  all  looked 
for  it — I  myself  looked  everywhere,  I  am  certain — but  no- 
body could  find  it. 

"  Do  you  recollect  where  you  had  it  last,  Annie  ?"  said  her 
mother. 

I  wondered  how  I  could  have  thought  she  looked  white, 
or  anything  but  burning  red,  when  she  answered  that  she 
had  had  it  safe  a  little  while  ago,  she  thought,  but  it  was  not 
worth  looking  for. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  looked  for  again,  and  still  not  found. 
She  entreated  that  there  might  be  ,no  more  searching  ;  but 
it  was  still  sought  for,  in  a  desultory  way,  until  she  was  quite 
well,  and  the  company  took  their  departure. 


246  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

We  walked  very  slowly  iiome,  Mr.  Wickfield,  Agnes  and 
I — Agnes  and  I  admiring  liic  Laoonlight,  and  Mr.  Wickfield 
scarcely  raising  his  eyes  from  the  ground.  When  we,  at 
last,  reached  our  own  door,  Agnes  discovered  that  she  had 
left  her  little  reticule  behind.  Delighted  to  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  her,  I  ran  back  to  fetch  it. 

I  went  into  the  supper  room,  where  it  had  been  left, 
which  was  deserted  and  dark.  But  a  door  of  communica- 
tion between  that  and  the  Doctor's  study,  where  there  was  a 
light,  being  open,  I  passed  on  there,  to  say  what  I  wanted, 
and  to  get  a  candle. 

The  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his  ea>:y  chair  by  the  fireside, 
and  his  young  wife  was  on  a  stoo'  at  his  feet.  The  Doctor, 
with  a  complacent  smile,  was  reading  aloud  some  manuscript 
explanation  or  statement  of  a  theory  out  of  that  intermin- 
able Dictionary,  and  she  was  lo<;K:ing  up  at  him.  But  with 
such  a  face  as  I  never  saw.  It  vvas  so  beautiful  in  its  form, 
it  was  so  ashy  pale,  it  was  so  fixed  in  its  abstraction,  it  was 
so  full  of  a  wild,  sleep-walking,  dreamy  horror  of  I  don't 
know  what.  The  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  her  brown  hair 
fell  in  two  rich  clusters  on  her  shoulders,  and  on  her  white 
dress,  disordered  by  the  want  of  the  lost  ribbon.  Distinctly 
as  I  recollect  her  look,  I  cannot  say  of  what  it  was  express- 
ive. I  cannot  even  say  of  what  it  is  expressive  to  me  now, 
rising  again  before  my  older  judgment.  Penitence,  humili- 
ation, shame,  pride,  love,  and  trustfulness — I  see  them  all ; 
and  in  them  all,  I  see  that  horror  of  I  don't  know  what. 

My  entrance,  and  my  saying  what  I  wanted,  roused  her. 
It  disturbed  the  Doctor  too,  for  when  I  went  back  to  re- 
place the  candle  I  had  taken  from  the  table,  he  was  patting 
her  head,  in  his  fatherly  way,  and  saying  he  was  a  merciless 
drone  to  let  her  tempt  him  into  reading  on  ;  and  he  would 
have  her  go  to  bed. 

But  she  asked  him,  in  a  rapid,  urgent  manner,  to  let  her 
stay — to  let  her  feel  assured  (I  heard  her  murmur  some 
broken  words  to  this  effect)  that  she  was  in  his  confidence 
that  night.  And,  as  she  turned  again  towards  him,  after 
glancing  at  me  as  I  left  the  room  and  went  out  at  the  door, 
I  saw  her  cross  her  hands  upon  his  knee,  and  look  up  at 
him  with  the  same  face,  something  quieted,  as  he  resumed 
his  reading. 

It  made  a  great  impression  on  me,  and  I  remembered  it  a 
long  time  afterwards  ;  as  I  shall  have  occasion  to  narrate 
when  the  time  comes. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  247 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

SOMEBODY    TURNS    UP. 

It  has  not  occurred  to  me  to  mention  Peggotty  since  I 
ran  away  ;  but,  of  course,  I  wrote  her  a  letter  almost  as  soon 
as  I  was  housed  at  Dover,  and  another,  and  a  longer  letter, 
containing  all  particulars  fully  related,  when  my  aunt  took  me 
formally  under  her  protection.  On  my  being  settled  at  Dr. 
Strong's  I  wrote  to  her  again,  detailing  my  happy  condition 
and  prospects.  I  never  could  have  derived  anything  like 
the  pleasure  from  spending  the  money  Mr.  Dick  had  given 
me,  that  I  felt  in  sending  a  gold  half-guinea  to  Peggotty, 
per  post,  inclosed  in  this  last  letter,  to  discharge  the  sum  I 
had  borrowed  of  her  :  in  which  epistle,  not  before,  I  men- 
tioned about  the  young  man  with  the  donkey-cart. 

To  these  communications  Peggotty  replied  as  promptly, 
if  not  as  concisely,  as  a  merchant's  clerk.  Her  utmost 
powers  of  expression  (which  were  certainly  not  great  in  ink) 
were  exhausted  in  the  attempt  to  write  what  she  felt  on  the 
subject  of  my  journey.  Four  sides  of  incoherent  and  inter- 
jectional  beginnings  of  sentences,  that  had  no  end,  except 
blots,  were  inadequate  to  afford  her  any  relief.  But  the 
blots  were  more  expressive  to  me  than  the  best  composi- 
tion, for  they  showed  me  that  Peggotty  had  been  crying  all 
over  the  paper,  and  what  could  I  have  desired  more  ? 

I  made  out,  without  much  difficulty,  that  she  could  not 
take  quite  kindly  to  my  aunt  yet.  The  notice  was  too  short 
after  so  long  a  prepossession  the  other  way.  We  never 
knew  a  person,  she  wrote  ;  but  to  think  that  Miss  Betsey 
should  seem  to  be  so  different  from  what  she  had  been 
thought  to  be,  was  a  moral ! — that  was  her  word.  She  was 
evidently  still  afraid  of  Miss  Betsey,  for  she  sent  her  grate- 
ful duty  to  her  but  timidly  ;  and  she  was  evidently  afraid  of 
me,  too,  and  entertained  the  probability  of  my  running 
away  again  soon  :  if  I  might  judge  from  the  repeated  hints 
she  threw  out,  that  the  coach-fare  to  Yarmouth  was  always 
to  be  had  of  her  for  the  asking. 

She  gave  me  one  piece  of  intelligence  which  affected  me 
very  much,  namely,  that  there  had  been  a  sale  of  the  furni- 
ture at  our  old  home,  and  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone 
were  gone   away,  and  the  house  was  shut  up,  to  be  let   or 


24S  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

sold.  God  knows  I  had  had  no  part  In  it  while  they  re* 
mained  there,  but  it  pained  me  to  think  of  the  dear  old 
place  as  altogether  abandoned  ;  of  the  weeds  growing  tall 
in  the  garden,  and  the  fallen  leaves  lying  thick  and  wet  up- 
on the  paths.  I  imagined  how  the  winds  of  winter  would 
howl  round  it,  how  the  cold  rain  would  beat  upon  the  whi- 
dow-glass,  how  the  moon  would  make  ghosts  on  the  walls 
of  the  empty  rooms,  watching  their  solitude  all  night.  I 
thought  afresh  of  the  grave  in  the  churchyard,  underneath 
the  tree  :  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  house  were  dead  too,  now, 
and  all  connected  with  my  father  and  mother  were  faded 
away. 

There  was  no  other  news  in  Peggotty's  letters.  Mr.  Barkis 
was  an  excellent  husband,  she  said,  though  still  a  little  near; 
but  we  all  had  our  faults,  and  she  had  plenty  (though  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  what  they  were)  ;  and  he  sent  his  duty, 
and  my  little  bedroom  was  always  ready  for  me.  Mr.  Peg- 
go  tty  was  well  and  Ham  was  well,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  was 
but  poorly,  and  little  Em'ly  wouldn't  send  her  love,  but  said 
that  Peggotty  might  send  it,  if  she  liked. 

All  this  intelligence  I  dutifully  imparted  to  my  aunt,  only 
reserving  to  myself  the  mention  of  little  Em'ly,  to  whom  I 
instinctively  felt  she  would  not  very  tenderly  incline.  While 
I  was  yet  new  at  Dr.  Strong's,  she  made  several  excursions 
over  to  Canterbury  to  see  me,  and  always  at  unseasonable 
hours  ;  with  the  view,  I  suppose,  of  taking  me  by  surprise. 
But,  finding  me  well  employed,  and  bearing  a  good  charac- 
ter, and  hearing  on  all  hands  that  I  rose  fast  in  the  school, 
she  soon  discontinued  these  visits.  I  saw  her  on  a  Satur- 
day every  third  or  fourth  week,  when  I  went  over  to  Dover 
for  a  treat  ;  and  I  saw  Mr.  Dick  every  alternate  Wednesday, 
when  he  arrived  by  stage-coach  at  noon,  to  stay  until  next 
morning. 

On  these  occasions  Mr.  Dick  never  traveled  without  a 
leathern  writing-desk,  containing  a  supply  of  stationery  and 
the  Memorial  ;  in  relation  to  which  document  he  had  a 
notion  that  time  was  beginning  to  press  now,  and  that  it 
really  must  be  got  out  of  hand. 

Mr.  Dick  was  very  partial  to  gingerbread.  To  render  his 
visits  the  more  agreeable,  my  aunt  had  instructed  me  to 
open  a  credit  for  him  at  a  cake-shop,  which  was  hampered 
with  the  stipulation  that  he  should  not  be  served  with  more 
than  one  shilling's  worth  in  the  course  of  any  one  day. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  249 

This,  and  the  reference  of  all  his  little  bills  at  the  county 
inn  where  he  slept,  to  my  aunt,  before  they  were  paid,  in- 
duced me  to  suspect  that  he  was  only  allowed  to  rattle  his 
money,  and  not  to  spend  it.  I  found  on  further  investiga- 
tion that  this  was  so,  or  at  least  there  was  an  agreement  be- 
tween him  and  my  aunt  that  he  should  account  to  her  for 
all  his  disbursements.  As  he  had  no  idea  of  deceiving  her 
and  always  desired  to  please  her,  he  was  thus  made  chary  of 
launching  into  expense.  On  this  point,  as  well  as  on  all 
other  possible  points,  Mr.  Dick  was  convinced  that  my  aunt 
was  the  wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  women  ;  as  he  re- 
peatedly told  me  with  infinite  secrecy,  and  always  in  a 
whisper. 

*'  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  after 
imparting  this  confidence  to  me,  one  Wednesday  ;  "  who's 
the  man  that  hides  near  our  house  and  frightens  her  ?" 

"  Frightens  my  aunt,  sir  ?" 

Mr.  Dick  nodded.  "  I  thought  nothing  would  have  fright- 
ened her,"  he  said,  "  for  she's — "  here  he  whispered  softly, 
*'  don't  mention  it — the  wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  wo- 
men." Having  said  which,  he  drew  back,  to  observe  the 
effect  which  this  description  of  her  made  upon  me. 

"  The  first  time  he  came,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  was — let  me' 
see — sixteen  hundred  and  forty-nine  was  the  date  of  King 
Charles's  execution.  I  think  you  said  sixteen  hundred  and 
forty-nine." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  can  be,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  sorely 
puzzled  and  shaking  his  head.  "I  don't  think  I'm  as  old 
as  that." 

"  Was  it  in  that  year  that  the  man  appeared,  sir  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  really,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  I  don't  see  how  it  can 
have  been  in  that  year,  Trotwood.  Do  you  get  that  date 
out  of  history  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

**  I  suppose  history  never  lies,  does  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick, 
with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

*'  Oh  dear,  no,  sir  !"  I  replied,  most  decisively.  I  was  in- 
genuous and  young,  and  thought  so. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  shaking  his  head. 
"There's  something  wrong,  somewhere.  However,  it  was 
very  soon  after  the  mistake  was  made  of  putting  some  of  the 
trouble  out  of  King  Charles's  head  into  my  head,  that  the 


250  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

man  first  came.  I  was  walking  out  with  Miss  Trotwood 
after  tea,  just  at  dark,  and  there  he  was,  close  to  our  house." 

"  Walking  about  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Walking  about  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Dick.  "  Let  me  see.  I 
must  recollect  a  bit.     N — no,  no;  he  was  not  walking  about." 

I  asked,  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting  at  it,  what  he  was 
doing. 

,  '*  Well,  he  wasn't  there  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  until  he 
came  up  behind  her,  and  whispered.  Then  she  turned  round 
and  fainted  and  I  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  walked 
away  ;  but  that  he  should  have  been  hiding  ever  since  (in  the 
ground  or  somewhere)  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing." 

''''Has  he  been  hiding  ever  since  ?"  I  asked. 

"  To  be  sure  he  has,"  retorted  Mr.  Dick,  nodding  his  head 
gravely.  "  Never  came  out  till  last  night !  We  were  walk- 
ing last  night,  and  he  came  up  behind  her  again,  and  I  knew 
him  again." 

"  And  did  he  frighten  my  aunt  again  ?" 

"  All  of    a  shiver,"   said   Mr.  Dick,  counterfeiting  that 
affection  and  making  his  teeth  chatter.     "  Held  by  the  pal- 
ings.    Cried.     But  Trotwood,  come  here,"  getting  me  close 
.to  him,  that  he  might  whisper  very  softly  ;  "why  did  she 
give  him  money,  boy,  in  the  moonlight  ?" 

"  He  was  a  beggar,  perhaps." 

Mr.  Dick  shook  his  head,  as  utterly  renouncing  the  sug- 
gestion, and  having  replied  a  great  many  times,  and  with 
great  confidence.  "  No  beggar,  no  beggar,  no  beggar,  sir  !" 
went  on  to  say,  that  from  his  window  he  had  afterwards, 
and  late  at  night,  seen  my  aunt  give. this  person  money 
outside  the  garden  rails  in  the  moonlight,  who  then  slunk 
away — into  the  ground  again,  as  he  thought  probable — and 
was  seen  no  more  ;  while  my  aunt  came  hurriedly  and 
secretly  back  into  the  house,  and  had,  even  that  morning, 
been  quite  different  from  her  usual  self  :  which  preyed  on 
Mr.  Dick's  mind. 

I  had  not  the  least  belief,  in  the  outset  of  the  story,  that 
the  unknown  was  anything  but  a  delusion  of  Mr.  Dick's, 
and  one  of  the  line  of  that  ill-fated  Prince  who  occasioned 
him  so  much  difficulty  ;  but  after  some  reflection  I  began  to 
entertain  the  question  whether  an  attempt,  or  threat  of  an 
attempt  might  have  been  twice  made  to  take  poor  Mr.  Dick 
himself  from  under  my  aunt's  protection,  and  whether  my 
aunt,  the  strength  of  whose  kind  feeling  towards  him  I  knew 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  251 

from  herself,  might  have  been  induced  to  pay  a  price  for  his 
peace  and  quiet.  As  I  was  already  much  attached  to  Mr. 
Dick,  and  very  solicitous  for  his  welfare,  my  fears  favored 
this  supposition  ;  and  for  a  long  time  his  Wednesday  hardly 
ever  came  round,  without  my  entertaining  a  misgiving  that 
he  would  not  be  on  the  coach-box  as  usual.  There  he 
always  appeared,  however,  gray-headed,  laughing,  and  hap- 
py ;  and  he  never  had  anything  more  to  tell  of  the  man  who 
could  frighten  my  aunt. 

The^e  Wednesdays  were  the  happiest  days  of  Mr.  Dick's 
life  ;  they  were  far  from  being  the  least  happy  of  mine.  He 
soon  became  known  to  every  boy  in  the  school ;  and  though 
he  never  took  an  active  part  in  any  game  but  kite-flying,  was 
as  deeply  interested  in  all  our  sports  as  any  one  among  us. 
How  often  have  I  seen  him  intent  upon  a  match  at  marbles 
or  pegtop,  looking  on  with  a  face  of  unutterable  interest, 
and  hardly  breathing  at  the  critical  times  !  How  often,  at 
hare  and  hounds,  have  I  seen  him  mounted  on  a  little  knoll, 
cheering  the  whole  field  on  to  action,  and  waving  his  hat 
above  his  gray  head,  oblivious  of  King  Charles  the  Martyr's 
head,  and  all  belonging  to  it  !  How  many  a  summer-hour 
have  I  known  to  be  but  blissful  minutes  to  him  in  the 
cricket-field  !  How  many  winter  days  have  I  seen  him, 
standing  blue-nosed  in  the  snow  and  east  wind,  looking  at 
the  boys  going  down  the  long  slide,  and  clapping  his  worsted 
gloves  in  rapkire  ! 

He  was  an  universal  favorite,  and  his  ingenuity  in  little 
things  was  transcendent.  He  could  cut  oranges  into  such 
devices  as  none  of  us  had  an  idea  of.  He  could  make  a 
boat  out  of  anything,  from  a  skewer  upwards.  He  could 
turn  crampbones  into  chessmen  ;  fashion  Roman  chariots 
from  old  court  cards  ;  make  spoked  wheels  out  of  CQtton 
reels,  and  birdcages  of  old  wire.  But  he  was  greatest  of  all, 
perhaps,  in  the  articles  of  string  and  straw  ;  with  which  we 
were  all  persuaded  he  could  do  anything  that  could  be  done 
by  hands. 

Dr.  Dick's  renown  was  not  long  confined  to  us.  After  a 
few  Wednesdays,  Doctor  Strong  himself  made  some  in- 
quiries of  me  about  him,  and  I  told  him  all  my  aunt  had 
told  me  ;  which  interested  the  Doctor  so  much  that  he  re- 
quested, on  the  occasion  of  his  next  visit,  to  be  presented  to 
^im.  This  ceremony  I  performed  ;  and  the  Doctor  begging 
Mr.  Dick,  whensover  he  should  not  find  me  at  the  coach- 


252  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

office,  to  come  on  there,  and  rest  himself  until  our  morning's 
work  was  over,  it  soon  passed  into  a  custom  for  Mr.  Dick  to 
come  on  as  a  matter  of  course,  and,  if  we  were  a  little  late, 
as  often  happened  on  a  Wednesday,  to  walk  about  the  court- 
yard, waiting  for  me.  Here  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Doctor's  beautiful  young  wife  (paler  than  formerly,  all 
this  time  ;  more  rarely  seen  by  me  or  any  one,  I  think  ;  and 
not  so  gay  but  not  less  beautiful),  and  so  became  more  and 
more  familiar  by  degrees,  until,  at  last,  he  would  come  into 
the  school  and  wait.  He  always  sat  in  a  particular  corner, 
on  a  particular  stool,  which  was  called  "  Dick,"  after  him  ; 
here  he  would  sit,  with  his  gray  head  bent  forward,  atten- 
tively listening  to  whatever  might  be  going  on,  with  a  pro- 
found veneration  for  the  learning  he  had  never  been  able  to 
acquire. 

This  veneration  Mr.  Dick  extended  to  the  Doctor,  whom 
he  thought  the  most  subtle  and  accomplished  philosopher 
of  any  age.  It  was  long  before  Mr.  Dick  ever  spoke  to  him 
otherwise  than  bare-headed  ;  and  even  when  he  and  the 
Doctor  had  struck  up  quite  a  friendship,  and  would  walk 
together  by  the  hour,  on  that  side  of  the  court-yard  which 
was  known  among  us  as  The  Doctor's  Walk,  Mr.  Dick 
would  pull  off  his  hat  at  intervals  to  show  his  respect  for 
wisdom  and  knowledge.  How  it  ever  came  about,  that  the 
Doctor  began  to  read  out  scraps  of  the  famous  Dictionary, 
in  these  walks,  I  never  knew  ;  perhaps  he  felt  it  all  the  same, 
at  first,  as  reading  to  himself.  However,  it  passed  into  a 
custom  too  ;  and  Mr.  Dick,  listening  with  a  face  shining 
with  pride  and  pleasure,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  believed  the 
Dictionary  to  be  the  most  delightful  book  in  the  world. 

As  I  think  of  them  going  up  and  down  before  those  school- 
room windows — the  Doctor  reading  with  his  complacent 
smile,  an  occasional  flourish  of  the  manuscript,  or  grave 
motion  of  his  head  ;  and  Mr.  Dick  listening,  enchained  by 
interest,  with  his  poor  wits  calmly  wandering  God  knows 
where,  upon  the  wings  of  hard  words — I  think  of  it  as  one 
of  the  pleasantest  things,  in  a  quiet  way,  that  I  have  ever 
seen.  I  feel  as  if  they  might  go  walking  to  and  fro  forever, 
and  the  world  might  somehow  be  the  better  for  it — as  if  a 
thousand  things  it  makes  a  noise  about  were  not  one-half  so 
good  for  it,  or  me. 

Agnes  was  one  of  Mr.  Dick's  friends,  very  soon  ;  and  in 
often   coming   to   the   house,  he  made  acquaintance  with 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  253 

Uriah.  The  friendship  between  himself  and  me  increased 
continually,  and  it  was  maintained  on  this  odd  footing : 
that,  while  Mr.  Dick  came  professedly  to  look  after  me  as 
my  guardian,  he  always  consulted  me  in  any  little  matter  of 
doubt  that  arose,  and  invariably  guided  himself  by  my  ad- 
vice ;  not  only  having  a  high  respect  for  my  native  sagacity, 
but  considering  that  I  had  inherited  a  good  deal  from  my 
aunt. 

One  Thursday  morning,  when  I  was  about  to  walk  with 
Mr.  Dick  from  the  hotel  to  the  coach-office  before  going 
back  to  school  (for  we  had  an  hour's  school  before  break- 
fast), I  met  Uriah  in  the  street,  who  reminded  me  of  the 
promise  I  had  made  to  take  tea  with  himself  and  his  mother: 
adding,  with  a  writhe,  *'  But  I  didn't  expect  you  to  keep  it, 
Master  Copperfield,  we're  so  very  umble." 

I  really  had  not  yet  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind  whether 
I  liked  Uriah  or  detested  him;  and  I  was  very  doubtful 
about  it  still,  as  I  stood  looking  him  in  the  face  in  the  street. 
But  I  felt  it  quite  an  affront  to  be  supposed  proud,  and  said 
I  only  wanted  to  be  asked. 

"  Oh,  if  that's  all.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah,  "  and 
it  really  isn't  our  umbleness  that  prevents  you,  will  you  come 
this  evening  ?  But  if  it  is  our  umbleness,  I  hope  you  won't 
mind  owning  to  it.  Master  Copperfield;  for  we  are  well  aware 
of  our  condition." 

I  said  I  would  mention  it  to  Mr.  Wickfield,  and  if  he  ap- 
proved, as  I  had  no  doubt  he  would,  I  would  come  with 
pleasure.  So,  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  which  was  one  of 
the  early  office  evenings,  I  announced  myself  as  ready  to 
Uriah. 

"  Mother  will  be  proud  indeed,"  he  said,  as  we  walked 
away  together.  "Or  she  would  be  proud,  if  it  wasn't  sin- 
ful. Master  Copperfield." 

"  Yet  you  didn't  mind  supposing  I  was  proud  this  morn- 
ing," I  returned. 

*'  Oh  dear  no,  Master  Copperfield  !"  returned  Uriah.  "  Oh, 
believe  me,  no  !  Such  a  thought  never  came  into  my  head! 
I  shouldn't  have  deemed  it  at  all  proud  if  you  had  thought 
MS  too  umble  for  you.     Because  we  are  so  very  umble." 

"  Have  you  been  studying  much  law  lately  ?"  I  asked,  to 
change  the  subject. 

"  Oh,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  self- 
denial,  "  my  reading  is  hardly  to  be  called  study.      I  have 


2S4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

passed  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening,  sometimes,  with  Mr. 
Tidd." 

"  Rather  hard,  I  suppose  ?"  said  I. 

"  He  is  hard  to  me  sometimes,"  returned  Uriah.  "  But  I 
don't  know  what  he  might  be,  to  a  gifted  person." 

After  beating  a  little  tune  on  his  chin  as  we  walked  on, 
with  the  two  fore-fingers  of  his  skeleton  right  hand,  he 
added : 

"There  are  expressions,  you  see.  Master  Copperfield — 
Latin  words  and  terms—in  Mr.  Tidd,  that  are  trying  to  a 
reader  of  my  umble  attainments." 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  taught  Latin?"  I  said,  briskly.  *\1 
will  teach  it  you  with  pleasure,  as  I  learn  it." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  answered  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  I  am  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  make  the 
offer,  but  I  am  much  too  umble  to  accept  it." 

"  What  nonsense,  Uriah!" 

"Oh,  indeed  you  must  excuse  me.  Master  Copperfield!  I 
am  greatly  obliged,  and  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  I  as- 
sure you;  but  1  am  far  too  umble.  There  are  people  enough 
to  tread  upon  me  in  my  lowly  estate,  without  my  doing  out- 
rage to  their  feelings  by  possessing  learning.  Learning  ain't 
for  me.  A  person  like  myself  had  better  not  aspire.  If  he 
is  to  get  on  in  life,  he  must  get  on  umbly,  Master  Copper- 
field." 

I  never  saw  his  mouth  so  wide,  or  the  creases  in  his  cheeks 
so  deep,  as  when  he  delivered  himself  of  these  sentiments; 
shaking  his  head  all  the  time,  and  writhing  modestly. 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,  Uriah,"  I  said.  . "  I  dare  say 
there  are  several  things  that  I  could  teach  you,  if  you  would 
like  to  learn  them." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  that.  Master  Copperfield,"  he  an- 
swered; "  not  in  the  least.  But  not  being  umble  yourself, 
you  don't  judge  well,  perhaps,  for  them  that  are.  I  won't 
provoke  my  betters  with  knowledge,  thank  you.  I'm  much 
too  umble.     Here  is  my  umble  dwelling.  Master  Copperfield!" 

We  entered  a  low,  old-fashioned  room,  walked  straight  in- 
to from  the  street,  and  found  there,  Mrs.  Heep,  who  was  the 
dead  image  of  Uriah,  only  short.  She  received  me  with  the 
utmost  humility,  and  apologized  to  me  for  giving  her  son  a 
kiss,  observing  that,  lowly  as  they  were,  they  had  their  nat- 
ural affections,  which  they  hoped  would  give  no  offense  to 
any  one.     It  was  a  perfectly  decent  room,  half  parlor  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ^55 

half  kitchen,  but  not  at  all  a  snug  room.  The  tea-things 
were  set  upon  the  table,  and  the  kettle  was  boiling  on  the 
hob.  There  was  a  chest  of  drawers  with  an  escritoire  top, 
for  Uriah  to  read  or  write  of  an  evening;  there  was  Uriah's 
blue  bag  lying  down  and  vomiting  papers;  there  was  a  com- 
pany of  Uriah's  books,  commanded  by  Mr.  Tidd;  there  was 
a  corner  cupboard;  and  there  were  the  usual  articles  of  fur- 
niture. I  don't  remember  that  any  individual  object  had  a 
bare,  pinched,  spare  look;  but  I  do  remember  that  the  whole 
5  lace  had. 

It  was  perhaps  a  part  of  Mrs.  Heep's  humility,  that  she 
still  wore  weeds.  Notwithstanding  the  lapse  of  time  that 
had  occurred  since  Mr.  Heep's  decease,  she  still  wore  weeds. 
I  think  there  was  some  compromise  in  the  cap;  but  other- 
wise she  was  as  weedy  as  in  the  early  days  of  her  mourning. 

"This  is  a  day  to  be  remembered,  my  Uriah,  I  am  sure," 
said  Mrs.  Heep,  making  the  tea,  "  when  Master  Copperfield 
pays  us  a  visit." 

"  I  said  you'd  think  so,  mother,"  said  Uriah. 

*'  If  I  could  have  wished  father  to  remain  among  us  for 
any  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Heep,  "it  would  have  been,  that  he 
might  have  known  his  company  this  afternoon." 

I  felt  embarrassed  by  these  compliments;  but  I  was  sen- 
sible, too,  of  being  entertained  as  an  honored  guest,  and  I 
thought  Mrs.  Heep  an  agreeable  woman. 

"  My  Uriah,"  said  Mrs.  Heep,  "  has  looked  forward  to 
this,  sir,  a  long  while.  He  had  his  fears  that  our  umbleness 
stood  in  the  way,  and  I  joined  in  them  myself.  Umble  we 
are,  umble  we  have  been,  umble  we  shall  ever  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Heep. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  no  occasion  to  be  so,  ma'am,"  I  said, 
"  unless  you  like." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Heep.  "  We  know  our 
station  and  are  thankful  in  it." 

I  found  that  Mrs.  Heep  gradually  got  nearer  to  me,  and 
that  Uriah  gradually  got  opposite  to  me,  and  that  they  re- 
spectfully plied  me  with  the  choicest  of  the  eatables  on  the 
table.  There  was  nothing  particularly  choice  there,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  I  took  the  will  for  the  deed,  and  felt  that  they 
were  very  attentive.  Presently  they  began  to  talk  about 
aunts,  and  then  I  told  them  about  mine  ;  and  about  fathers 
and  mothers,  and  then  I  told  them  about  mine  ;  and  then 
Mrs.  Heep  began  to  talk  about  fathers-in-law,  and  then  I  be- 


256  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

gan  to  tell  her  about  mine — but  stopped,  because  my  aunt 
had  advised  me  to  observe  a  silence  on  that  subject.  A  ten- 
der young  cork,  however,  would  have  had  no  more  chance 
against  a  pair  of  cork-screws,  or  a  tender  young  tooth  against 
a  pair  of  dentists,  or  a  little  shuttlecock  against  two  battle- 
dores, than  I  had  against  Uriah  and  Mrs.  Heep.  They  did 
just  what  they  liked  with  me;  and  wormed  things  out  of  me 
that  I  had  no  desire  to  tell,  with  a  certainty  I  blush  to  think 
of:  the  more  especially  as,  in  my  juvenile  frankness,  I  took 
some  credit  to  myself  for  being  so  confidential,  and  felt  that 
I  was  quite  the  patron  of  my  two  respectful  entertainers. 

They  were  very  fond  of  one  another:  that  was  certain.  I 
take  it  that  had  its  effect  upon  me,  as  a  touch  of  nature;  but 
the  skill  with  which  the  one  followed  up  whatever  the  other 
said,  was  a  touch  of  art  which  I  was  still  less  proof  against. 
When  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  got  of  me  about  myself 
(for  on  the  Murdstone  and  Grinby  life,  and  on  my  journey, 
I  was  dumb),  they  began  about  Mr.  Wickfield  and  Agnes. 
Uriah  threw  the  ball  to  Mrs.  Heep,  Mrs.  Heep  caught  it 
and  threw  it  back  to  Uriah,  Uriah  kept  it  up  a  little  while, 
then  sent  it  back  to  Mrs.  Heep,  and  so  they  went  on  tossing 
it  about  until  I  had  no  idea  who  had  got  it,  and  was  quite 
bewildered.  The  ball  itself  was  always  changing  too.  Now 
it  was  Mr.  Wickfield,  now  Agnes,  now  the  excellence  of  Mr. 
Wickfield,  now  my  admiration  of  Agnes;  now  the  extent  of 
Mr.  Wickfield's  business  and  resources,  now  our  domestic  life 
after  dinner;  now  the  wine  that  Mr.  Wickfield  took,  the  rea- 
son why  he  took  it,  and  the  pity  that  it  was  he  took  so 
much;  now  one  thing,  now  another,  then  everything  at  once; 
and  all  the  time,  without  appearing  to  speak  very  often,  or 
to  do  anything  but  sometimes  encourage  them  a  little,  for 
fear  they  should  be  overcome  by  their  humility  and  the 
honor  of  my  company,  I  found  myself  perpetually  letting 
out  something  or  other  that  I  had  no  business  to  let  out, 
and  seeing  the  effect  of  it  in  the  twinkling  of  Uriah's  dinted 
nostrils. 

I  had  begun  to  be  a  little  uncomfortable,  and  to  wish 
myself  well  out  of  the  visit,  when  a  figure  coming  down  the 
street  passed  the  door — it  stood  open  to  air  the  room,  which 
was  warm,  the  weather  being  close  for  the  time  of  year 
— came  back  again,  looked  in,  and  walked  in,  exclaiming 
loudly,  "  Copperfield  !     Is  it  possible  ?" 

It  was  Mr.  Micawber !     It  was  Mr.  Micawber,  with  his 


t)AVlD   COPPERFIELD.  ^57 

eye-glass,  and  his  walking-stick,  and  his  shirt  collar,  and  his 
genteel  air,  and  the  condescending  roll  in  his  voice,  all  com- 
plete ! 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  putting  out 
his  hand,  "  this  is  indeed  a  meeting  which  is  calculated  to 
impress  the  mind  with  a  sense  of  the  instability  and  uncer- 
tainty of  all  human — in  short,  it  is  a  most  extraordinary 
meeting.  Walking  along  the  street,  reflecting  on  the 
probability  of  something  turning  up  (of  which  I  am  at  pres- 
ent rather  sanguine),  I  find  a  young,  but  valued  friend  turn 
up,  who  is  connected  with  the  most  eventful  period  of  my 
life  ;  I  may  say,  with  the  turning  point  of  my  existence. 
Copperfield,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?" 

I  cannot  say — I  really  can;?^/say — that  I  was  glad  to  see  Mr. 
Micawber  there;  but  I  was  glad  to  see  him  too,  and  shook 
hands  with  him  heartily,  inquiring  how  Mrs.  Micawber  was. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  waving  his  hand  as  of 
old,  and  settling  his  chin  in  his  shirt-collar.  "  She  is  toler- 
ably convalescent.  The  twins  no  longer  derive  their  suste- 
nance from  Nature's  founts — in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
in  one  of  his  bursts  of  confidence,  "  they  are  weaned — and 
Mrs.  Micawber  is,  at  present,  my  traveling  companion.  She 
will  be  rejoiced,  Copperfield,  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with 
one  who  has  proved  himself  in  all  respects  a  worthy  minister 
at  the  sacred  altar  of  friendship." 

I  said  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  her. 

*'  You  are  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Micawber. 

Mr.  Micawber  then  smiled,  settled  his  chin  again,  and 
looked  about  him. 

"  I  have  discovered  my  friend  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber  genteelly,  and  without  addressing  himself  particu- 
larly to  any  one,  "  not  in  solitude,  but  partaking  of  a  social 
meal  in  company  with  a  widow  lady,  and  one  who  is  appar- 
ently her  offspring — in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  another 
of  his  bursts  of  confidence,  "  her  son.  I  shall  esteem  it  an 
honor  to  be  presented." 

I  could  do  no  less,  under  these  circumstances,  than  make 
Mr.  Micawber  known  to  Uriah  Heep  and  his  mother;  which 
I  accordmgly  did.  As  they  abased  themselves  before  him, 
Mr.  Micawber  took  a  seat,  and  waved  his  hand  in  his  most 
courtly  manner. 

"  Any  friend  of  my  friend  Copperfield's,"  said  Mr.  Micaw 
ber,  "has  a  personal  claim  upon  myself." 


258  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"We  are  too  umble,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Heep,  "my  son  and 
me,  to  be  the  friends  of  Master  Copperfield.  He  has  been  so 
good  as  to  take  his  tea  with  us,  and  we  are  thankful  to  him 
for  his  company;  also  to  you,  sir,  for  your  notice." 

"  Ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  bow,  "  you  are 
very  obliging  ;  and  what  are  you  doing,  Copperfield  ?  Still 
in  the  wine  trade  ?" 

I  was  excessively  anxious  to  get  Mr.  Micawber  away  ;  and 
replied,  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  and  a  very  red  face,  I  have 
no  doubt,  that  I  was  a  pupil  at  Dr.  Strong's. 

"  A  pupil  ?"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  raising  his  eyebrows.  "  I 
am  extremely  happy  to  hear  it.  Although  a  mind  like  my 
friend  Copperfield's," — to  Uriah  and  Mrs.  Heep — "  does  not 
require  that  cultivation  which,  without  his  knowledge  of  men 
and  things,  it  would  require,  still  it  is  a  rich  soil  teeming  with 
latent  vegetation — in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  smiling,  in 
another  burst  of  confidence,  "  it  is  an  intellect  capable  of 
getting  up  the  classics  to  any  extent." 

Uriah,  with  his  long  hands  slowly  twining  over  one  another, 
made  a  ghastly  writhe  from  the"  waist  upwards,  to  express 
his  concurrence  in  this  estimation  of  me. 

"  Shall  we  go  and  see  Mrs.  Micawber,  sir  ?"  I  said,  to  get 
Mr.  Micawber  away, 

"  If  you  will  do  her  that  favor,  Copperfield,"  replied  Mr. 
Micawber,  rising.  "  I  have  no  scruple  in  saying  in  the 
presence  of  our  friends  here,  that  I  am  a  man  who  has,  for 
some  years,  contended  against  the  pressure  of  pecuniary 
difficulties."  I  knew  he  was  certain  to  say  something  of  this 
kind  ;  he  always  would  be  so  boastful  about  his  difficulties. 
"  Sometimes  I  have  risen  superior  to  my  difficulties.  Some- 
times my  difficulties  have — in  short,  have  floored  me.  There 
have  been  times  when  I  have  administered  a  succession  of 
facers  to  them  ;  there  have  been  times  when  they  have  been 
too  many  for  me,  and  I  have  given  in,  and  said  to  Mrs. 
Micawber  in  the  words  of  Cato,  '  Plato,  thou  reasonest  well. 
It's  all  up  now.  I  can  show  fight  no  more.'  But  at  no  time 
of  my  life,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "have  I  enjoyed  a  higher 
degree  of  satisfaction  than  in  pouring  my  griefs  (if  I  may 
describe  difficulties  chiefly  arising  out  of  warrants  of  attor- 
ney and  promissory  notes  at  two  and  four  months,  by  that 
word)  into  the  bosom  of  my  friend  Copperfield." 

Mr.  Micawber  closed  this  handsome  tribute  by  saying, 
"  Mr.  Heepl     Good  evening.     Mrs.  Heep!     Your  servant," 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  259 

and  then  walking  out  with  me  in  his  most  fashionable  man- 
ner, making  a  good  deal  of  noise  on  the  pavement  with  his 
shoes,  and  humming  a  tune  as  we  went. 

It  was  a  little  inn  where  Mr.  Micawber  put  up,  and  he  oc- 
cupied a  little  room  in  it,  partitioned  off  from  the  commer- 
cial room,  and  strongly  flavored  with  tobacco  smoke.  I 
think  it  was  over  the  kitchen,  because  a  warm  greasy  smell 
appeared  to  come  up  through  the  chinks  in  the  floor,  and 
there  was  a  flabby  perspiration  on  the  walls.  I  know  it  was 
near  the  bar,  on  account  of  the  smell  of  spirits  and  jingling 
of  glasses.  Here,  recumbent  on  a  small  sofa,  underneath 
the  picture  of  a  race-horse,  with  her  head  close  to  the  fire, 
and  her  feet  pushing  the  mustard  off  the  dumb-waiter  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  was  Mrs.  Micawber,  to  whom  Mr. 
Micawber  entered  first,  saying,  "  My  dear,  allow  me  to  intro- 
duce to  you  a  pupil  of  Doctor  Strong's." 

I  noticed,  by-the-by,  that  although  Mr.  Micawber  was  just 
as  much  confused  as  ever  about  my  age  and  standing,  he 
always  remembered,  as  a  genteel  thing,  that  I  was  a  pupil  of 
Doctor  Strong's. 

Mrs.  Micawber  was  amazed,  but  very  glad  to  see  me.  I 
was  very  glad  to  see  her  too,  and  after  an  affectionate  greet- 
ing on  both  sides,  sat  down  on  the  small  sofa  near  her. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  if  you  will  mention  to 
Copperfield  what  our  present  position  is,  which  I  have  no 
doubt  he  will  like  to  know,  I  will  go  and  look  at  the  paper 
the  while,  and  see  whether  anything  turns  up  among  the 
advertisements." 

"  I  thought  you  were  at  Plymouth,  ma'am,"  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Micawber,  as  he  went  out. 

"My  dear  Master  Copperfield,"  she  replied,  **we  went  to 
Plymouth." 

"  To  be  on  the  spot,"  I  hinted. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  To  be  on  the  spot. 
But,  the  truth  is,  talent  is  not  wanted  in  the  Custom  House. 
The  local  influence  of  my  family  was  quite  unavailing  to 
obtain  any  employment  in  that  department,  for  a  man  of  Mr. 
Micawber's  abilities.  They  would  rather  not  have  a  man  of 
Mr.  Micawber's  abilities.  He  would  only  show  the  deficiency 
of  the  others.  Apart  from  which,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  I 
will  not  disguise  from  you,  my  dear  Master  Copperfield, 
that  when  that  branch  of  my  family  which  is  settled  in  Ply- 
mouth became  aware  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  accompanied 


26o  DAVID  COPPKRFIELD. 

by  myself,  and  by  little  Wilkins  and  his  sister,  and  by  the 
twins,  they  did  not  receive  him  with  that  ardor  which  he 
might  have  expected,  being  so  newly  released  from  captivity. 
In  fact,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  lowering  her  voice, — '*this  is 
between  ourselves — our  reception  was  cool," 

"DeaVme!"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  It  is  truly  painful  to  con- 
template mankind  in  such  an  aspect,  Master  Copperfield,  but 
our  reception  was  decidedly  cool.  There  is  no  doubt  about 
it.  In  fact,  that  branch  of  my  family  which  is  settled  in 
Plymouth  became  quite  personal  to  Mr.  Micawber,  before 
we  had  been  there  a  week." 

I  said,  and  thought,  that  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
themselves. 

''  StiH,  so  it  was,"  continued  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  Under 
such  circumstances,  what  could  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's 
spirit  do  ?  But  one  obvious  course  was  left.  To  borrow,  of 
that  branch  of  my  family,  the  money  to  return  to  London, 
and  to  return  at  any  sacrifice." 

"Then  you  all  came  back  again,  ma'am?"  I  said. 

"  We  all  came  back  again,"  replied  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  Since 
then  I  have  consulted  other  branches  of  my  family  on  the 
course  which  it  is  most  expedient  for  Mr.  Micawber  to  take — 
for  I  maintain  that  he  must  take  some  course,  Master  Cop- 
perfield," said  Mrs.  Micawber,  argumentatively.  "  It  is  clear 
that  a  family  of  six,  not  including  a  domestic,  cannot  live 
upon  air." 

"Certainly,  ma'am,"  said  I. 

"  The  opinion  of  those  other  branches  of  my  family,** 
pursued  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  is,  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  im- 
mediately turn  his  attention  to  coals." 

"  To  what,  ma'am?" 

"  To  coals,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  To  the  coal  trade. 
Mr.  Micawber  was  induced  to  think,  on  inquiry,  that  there 
might  be  an  opening  for  a  man  of  his  talent  in  the  Medway 
Coal  Trade.  Then,  as  Mr.  Micawber  very  properly  said, 
the  first  step  to  be  taken  clearly  was,  to  come  and  see  the 
Medway.  Which  we  came  and  saw.  I  say  '  we,'  Master 
Copperfield;  for  I  never  will,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber  with 
emotion,  "I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber." 

I  murmured  my  admiration  and  approbation. 

"We  came,"  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber,"  and  saw  the  Med- 
way.    My  opinion  of  the  coal  trade  on  that  river  is,  that  it 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  261 

may  require  talent,  but  that  it  certainly  requires  capital. 
Talent,  Mr.  Micawber  has;  capital,  Mr.  Micawber  has  not. 
We  saw,  I  think,  the  greater  part  of  the  Medway;  and  that 
is  my  individual  conclusion.  Being  so  near  here,  Mr.  Mic- 
awber was  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  rash  not  to  come  on, 
and  see  the  cathedral.  Firstly,  on  account  of  its  being  so 
well  worth  seeing,  and  our  never  having  seen  it;  and  sec- 
ondly, on  account  of  the  great  probability  of  something 
turning  up  in  a  cathedral  town.  We  have  been  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  three  days.  Nothing  has,  as  yet,  turned 
up;  and  it  may  not  surprise  you,  my  dear  Master  Copper- 
field,  so  much  as  it  would  a  stranger,  to  know  that  we  are  at 
present  waiting  for  a  remittance  from  London,  to  discharge 
our  pecuniary  obligations  at  this  hotel.  Until  the  arrival  of 
that  remittance,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  much  feeling, 
"  I  am  cut  off  from  my  home  (I  allude  to  lodgings  in  Pen- 
tonville),  from  my  boy  and  girl,  and  from  my  twins." 

I  felt  the  utmost  sympathy  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  in 
this  anxious  extremity,  and  said  as  much  to  Mr.  Micawber, 
who  now  returned:  adding  that  I  only  wished  I  had  money 
enough,  to  lend  them  the  amount  they  needed.  Mr.  Mic- 
awber's  answer  expressed  the  disturbance  of  his  mind.  He 
said,  shaking  hands  with  me,  "  Copperfield,  you  are  a  true 
friend;  but  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  no  man  is 
without  a  friend  who  is  possessed  of  shaving  materials."  At 
this  dreadful  hint,  Mrs.  Micawber  threw  her  arms  around 
Mr.  Micawber's  neok  and  entreated  him  to  be  calm.  He 
wept;  but  so  far  recovered,  almost  immediately,  as  to  ring 
the  bell  for  the  waiter,  and  bespeak  a  hot  kidney  pudding 
and  a  plate  of  shrimps  for  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

When  I  took  my  leave  of  them,  they  both  pressed  me  so 
much  to  come  and  dine  before  they  went  away,  that  I  could 
not  refuse.  But,  as  I  knew  I  could  not  come  next  day, 
when  I  should  have  a  good  deal  to  prepare  in  the  evening, 
Mr.  Micawber  arranged  that  he  would  call  at  Doctor  Strong's 
in  the  course  of  the  morning  (having  a  presentiment  that  the 
remittance  would  arrive  by  that  post),  and  propose  the  day 
after,  if  it  would  suit  me  better.  Accordingly  I  was  called 
out  of  school  next  forenoon,  and  found  Mr.  Micawber  in  the 
parlor;  who  had  called  to  say  that  the  dinner  would  take 
place  as  proposed.  When  I  asked  him  if  the  remittance 
had  come,  he  pressed  my  hand  and  departed 

As  I  was  looking  out  of  the  window  that  same  evening,  it 


2.62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

surprised  me,  and  made  me  rather  uneasy,  to  see  Mr.  Mic- 
awber  and  Uriah  Heep  walk  past,  arm  in  arrn  ;  Uriah 
humbly  sensible  of  the  honor  that  was  done  him,  and  Mr. 
Micawber  taking  a  bland  delight  in  extending  his  patronage 
to  Uriah.  But  I  was  still  more  surprised,  when  I  went  to 
the  little  hotel  next  day  at  the  appointed  dinner  hour,  which 
was  four  o'clock,  to  find,  from  what  Mr.  Micawber  said,  that 
he  had  gone  home  with  Uriah,  and  had  drunk  brandy-and- 
water  at  Mrs.  Heep's. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  your  friend  Heep  is  a  young  fellow  who  might 
be  attorney-general.  If  I  had  known  that  young  man,  at  the 
period  when  my  difficulties  came  to  a  crisis,  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  I  believe  my  creditors  would  have  been  a  great  deal 
better  managed  than  they  were." 

I  hardly  understood  how  this  could  have  been,  seeing 
that  Mr.  Micawber  had  paid  them  nothing  at  all  as  it  was  ; 
but  I  did  not  like  to  ask.  Neither  did  I  like  to  say,  that  I 
hoped  he  had  not  been  too  communicative  to  Uriah  ;  or  to 
inquire  if  they  had  talked  much  about  me.  I  was  afraid  of 
hurting  Mr.  Micawber's  feelings,  or,  at  all  events,  Mrs.  Mic* 
awber's,  she  being  very  sensitive  ;  but  I  was  uncomfortable 
about  it,  too,  and  often  thought  about  it  afterwards. 

We  had  a  beautiful  little  dinner.  Quite  an  elegant  dish 
of  fish  ;  the  kidney-end  of  a  loin  of  veal,  roasted  ;  fried 
sausage-meat ;  a  partridge,  and  a  pudding.  There  was 
wine,  and  there  was  strong  ale  ;  and  after  dinner  Mrs,  Mic- 
awber made  us  a  bowl  of  hot  punch  with  her  own  hands. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  uncommonly  convivial.  I  never  saw 
him  such  good  company.  He  made  his  face  shine  with  the 
punch,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  varnished  all  over. 
He  got  cheerfully  sentimental  about  the  town,  and  proposed 
success  to  it  ;  observing,  that  Mrs.  Micawber  and  himself 
had  been  extremely  snug  and  comfortable  there,  and  that  he 
never  should  forget  the  agreeable  hours  they  had  passed  in 
Canterbury.  He  proposed  me  afterwards  :  and  he,  and 
Mrs.  Micawber,  and  I,  took  a  review  of  our  past  acquain- 
tance, in  the  course  of  which  we  sold  the  property  all  over 
again.  Then  I  proposed  Mrs.  Micawber  ;  or,  at  least,  said 
modestly,  ''  If  you'll  allow  me,  Mrs.  Micawber,  I  shall  now 
have  the  pleasure  of  drinking  your  health,  ma'am."  On 
which  Mr.  Micawber  delivered  an  eulogium  on  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber's character,  and  said  that  she  had  ever  been  his  guide, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  263 

philosopher,  and  friend,  and  he  would  recommend  me, 
when  I  came  to  a  marrying  time  of  life,  to  marry  such  another 
woman,  if  such  another  woman  could  be  found. 

As  the  punch  disappeared,  Mr.  Micawber  became  still 
more  friendly  and  convivial.  Mrs.  Micawber's  spirits  be- 
coming elevated,  too,  we  sang  "  Auld  Lang  Syne."  When 
we  came  to  "  Here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  frere,"  we  all  joined 
hands  round  the  table,  and  when  we  declared  we  would 
*'  take  a  right  gude  Willie  Waught,"  and  hadn't  the  least  idea 
what  it  meant,  we  were  really  affected. 

In  a  word,  I  never  saw  anybody  so  thoroughly  jovial  as 
Mr.  Micawber  was,  down  to  the  very  last  moment  of  the 
evening,  when  I  took  a  hearty  farewell  of  himself  and  his 
amiable  wife.  Consequently,  I  was  not  prepared,  at  seven 
o'clock  next  morning,  to  receive  the  following  communica- 
tion, dated  half-past  nine  in  the  evening ;  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  after  I  had  left  him. 

"  My  dear  Young  Friend, 

"  The  die  is  cast — all  is  over.  Hiding  the  ravages 
of  care  with  a  sickly  mask  of  mirth,  I  have  not  informed 
you,  this  evening,  that  there  is  no  hope  of  the  remittance. 
Under  these  circumstances,  alike  humiliating  to  endure,  hu- 
miliating to  contemplate,  and  humiliating  to  relate,  I  have 
discharged  the  pecuniary  liability  contracted  at  this  estab- 
lishment, by  giving  a  note  of  hand,  made  payable  fourteen 
days  after  date,  at  my  residence,  Pentonville,  London. 
When  it  becomes  due,  it  will  not  be  taken  up.  The.  result 
is  destruction.  The  bolt  is  impending,  and  the  tree  must 
fall. 

"  Let  the  wretched  man  who  now  addresses  you,  my  dear 
Copperfield,  be  a  beacon  to  you  through  life.  He  writes 
with  that  intention,  and  in  that  hope.  If  he  could  think 
himself  of  so  much  use,  one  gleam  of  day  might,  by  possi- 
bility, penetrate  into  the  cheerless  dungeon  of  his  remaining 
existence — though  his  longevity  is,  at  present  (to  say  the 
least  of  it),  extremely  problematical. 

"  This  is  the  last  communication,  my  dear  Copperfield, 
you  will  ever  receive 

"  From 
"The 

"  Beggared  Outcast, 

"WiLKiNS  Micawber.* 


264  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

I  was  so  shocked  by  the  contents  of  this  heart-rending 
letter,  that  I  ran  off  directly  towards  the  little  hotel,  with 
the  intention  of  taking  it  on  my  way  to  Doctor  Strong's,  and 
trying  to  soothe  Mr.  Micawber  with  a  word  of  comfort.  But, 
half-way  there,  I  met  the  London  coach  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Micawber  up  behind;  Mr.  Micawber,  the  very  picture  of 
tranquil  enjoyment,  smiling  at  Mrs.  Micawber's  conversa- 
tion, eating  walnuts  out  of  a  paper  bag,  with  a  bottle  stick- 
ing out  of  his  breast  pocket.  As  they  did  not  see  me,  I 
thought  it  best,  all  things  considered,  not  to  see  them.  So, 
with  a  great  weight  taken  off  my  mind,  I  turned  into  a  by- 
street that  was  the  nearest  way  to  school,  and  felt,  upon  the 
whole,  relieved  that  they  were  gone;  though  I  still  liked 
them  very  much,  nevertheless. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

A   RETROSPECT. 

My  school-days!  The  silent  gliding  on  of  my  existence 
— the  unseen,  unfelt  progress  of  my  life — from  childhood  up 
to  youth!  Let  me  think,  as  I  look  back  upon  that  flowing 
water,  now  a  dry  channel  overgrown  with  leaves,  whether 
there  are  any  marks  along  its  course,  by  which  I  can  remem- 
ber how  it  ran. 

A  moment,  and  I  occupy  my  place  in  the  cathedral,  where 
we  all  went  together,  every  Sunday  morning,  assembling 
first  at  school  for  that  purpose.  The  earthy  smell,  the 
sunless  air,  the  sensation  of  the  world  being  shut  out,  the 
resounding  of  the  organ  through  the  black  and  white  arched 
galleries  and  aisles,  are  wings  that  take  me  back,  and  hold 
me  hovering  above  those  days,  in  a  half-sleeping  and  half- 
waking  dream. 

I  am  not  the  last  boy  in  the  school.  I  have  risen,  in  a 
few  months,  over  several  heads.  But  the  first  boy  seems  to 
me  a  mighty  creature,  dwelling  afar  off,  whose  giddy  height 
is  unattainable.  Agnes  says  No,"  but  I  say ''Yes,"  and 
tell  her  that  she  little  thinks  what  stores  of  knowledge  have 
been  mastered  by  the  wonderful  being,  at  whose  place  she 
thinks  I,  even  I,  weak  aspirant,  may  arrive  in  time.  He  is 
not  my  private  friend  and  public  patron,  as  Steerforth  was, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  265 

but  I  hold  him  in  a  reverential  respect.  I  chiefly  wonder 
what  he'll  be,  when  he  leaves  Dr.  Strong's,  and  what  man- 
kind will  do  to  maintain  any  place  against  him. 

But  who  is  this  that  breaks  upon  me  ?  This  is  Miss  Shep- 
herd, whom  I  love. 

Miss  Shepherd  is  a  boarder  at  the  Misses  Nettingalls'  es- 
tablishment. I  adore  Miss  Shepherd.  She  is  a  little  girl,  in 
a  spencer,  with  a  round  face  and  curly  flaxen  hair.  The 
Misses  Nettingalls'  young  ladies  come  to  the  cathedral,  too. 
I  cannot  look  upon  my  book,  for  I  must  look  upon  Miss 
Shepherd.  When  the  choristers  chaunt,  I  hear  Miss  Shep- 
herd. In  the  service  I  mentally  insert  Miss  Shepherd's 
name — I  put  her  in  among  the  Royal  Family.  At  home,  in  my 
own  room,  I  am  moved  to  cry  out,  "Oh,  Miss  Shepherd!" 
in  a  transport  of  love. 

For  some  time,  I  am  doubtful  of  Miss  Shepherd's  feel- 
ings, but  at  length,  Fate  being  propitious,  we  meet  at  the 
dancing-school.  I  have  Miss  Shepherd  for  my  partner.  I 
touch  Miss  Shepherd's  glove,  and  feel  a  thrill  go  up  the 
right  arm  of  my  jacket,  and  come  out  at  my  hair.  I  say 
nothing  tender  to  Miss  Shepherd,  but  we  understand  each 
other.     Miss  Shepherd  and  myself  live  but  to  be  united. 

Why  do  I  secretly  give  Miss  Shepherd  twelve  Brazil  nuts 
for  a  present,  I  wonder  ?  They  are  not  expressive  of  affec- 
tion, for  they  are  difficult  to  pack  into  a  parcel  of  any  regu- 
lar shape;  they  are  hard  to  crack,  even  in  room  doors,  and 
they  are  oily  when  cracked;  yet  I  feel  that  they  are  appro- 
priate to  Miss  Shepherd.  Soft,  seedy  biscuits,  also,  I  bestow 
upon  Miss  Shepherd;  and  oranges  innumerable.  Once,  I 
kiss  Miss  Shepherd  in  the  cloak-room.  Ecstacy!  What  are 
my  agony  and  indignation  next  day,  when  I  hear  a  flying 
rumor  that  the  Misses  Nettingall  have  stood  Miss  Shepherd 
in  the  stocks  for  turning  in  her  toes! 

Miss  Shepherd  being  the  one  pervading  theme  and  vision 
of  my  life,  how  do  I  ever  come  to  break  with  her  ?  I  can't 
conceive.  And  yet  a  coolness  grows  between  Miss  Shepherd 
and  myself.  Whispers  reach  me  of  Miss  Shepherd  having 
said  she  wished  I  wouldn't  stare  so,  and  having  avowed  a 
preference  for  Master  Jones — for  Jones!  a  boy  of  no  merit 
whatever!  The  gulf  between  me  and  Miss  Shepherd  wid* 
ens.  At  last,  one  day,  I  met  the  Misses  Nettingalls'  es' 
tablishment  out  walking.  Miss  Shepherd  makes  a  face  a^ 
she  goes  by,  and  laughs  to  her  companion.      All  is  oven 


266  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

The  devotion  of  a  life — it  seems  a  life,  it  is  all  the  same 
— is  at  an  end:  Miss  Shepherd  comes  out  of  the  morning 
service,  and  the  Royal  Family  know  her  no  more. 

I  am  higher  in  the  school,  and  no  one  breaks  my  peace. 
I  am  not  at  all  polite  now,  to  the  Misses  Nettingalls'  young 
ladies,  and  shouldn't  dote  on  any  of  them,  if  they  were  twice 
as  many  and  twenty  times  as  beautiful.  I  think  the  dancing- 
school  a  tiresome  affair,  and  wonder  why  the  girls  can't 
dance  by  themselves  and  leave  us  alone.  I  am  growing 
great  in  Latin  verses,  and  neglect  the  laces  of  my  boots. 
Doctor  Strong  refers  to  me  in  public  as  a  promising  young 
scholar.  Mr.  Dick  is  wild  with  joy,  and  my  aunt  remits  me 
a  guinea  by  the  next  post.        ^ 

The  shade  of  a  young  butcher  rises,  like  the  apparition  of 
an  armed  head  in  Macbeth.  Who  is  this  young  butcher  ? 
He  is  the  terror  of  the  youth  of  Canterbury.  There  is  a 
vague  belief  abroad,  that  the  beef  suet  with  which  he 
anoints  his  hair  gives  him  unnatural  strength,  and  that  he  is  a 
match  for  a  man.  He  is  a  broad-faced,  bull-necked  young 
butcher,  with  rough  red  cheeks,  an  ill-conditioned  mind, 
and  an  injurious  tongue.  His  main  use  of  this  tongue  is,  to 
disparage  Doctor  Strong's  young  gentlemen.  He  says,  pub- 
licly, that  if  they  want  anything  he'll  give  it  to  'em.  He 
names  individuals  among  them  (myself  included),  whom  he 
could  undertake  to  settle  with  one  hand,  and  the  other  tied 
behind  him.  He  waylays  the  smaller  boys  to  punch  their 
unprotected  heads,  and  calls  challenges  after  me  in  the  open 
streets.  For  these  sufficient  reasons  I  resolve  to  fight  the 
butcher. 

It  is  a  summer  evening,  down  in  a  green  hollow,  at  the 
corner  of  a  wall.  I  meet  the  butcher  by  appointment.  I 
am  attended  by  a  select  body  of  our  boys;  the  butcher,  by 
two  other  butchers,  a  young  publican,  and  a  sweep.  The 
preliminaries  are  adjusted,  and  the  butcher  and  myself 
stand  face  to  face.  In  a  moment  the  butcher  lights  ten 
thousand  candles  out  of  my  left  eyebrow.  In  another  mo- 
ment, I  don't  know  where  the  wall  is,  or  where  I  am,  or 
where  anybody  is.  I  hardly  know  which  is  myself  and 
which  the  butcher,  we  are  always  in  such  a  tangle  and  tus- 
sle, knocking  about  upon  the  trodden  grass.  Sometimes  I 
see  the  butcher,  bloody  but  confident;  sometimes  I  see 
nothing,  and  sit  gasping  on  my  second's  knee;  sometimes  I 
go  in   at  the  butcher  madly,   and   cut    my    knuckles   open 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  267 

against  his  face,  without  appearing  to  discompose  him  at 
all.  At  last  I  awake,  very  queer  about  the  head,  as  from  a 
giddy  sleep,  and  see  the  butcher  walking  off,  congratulated 
by  the  two  other  butchers  and  the  sweep  and  publican,  and 
putting  on  his  coat  as  he  goes:  from  which  I  augur,  justly, 
that  the  victory  is  his. 

I  am  taken  home  in  a  sad  plight,  and  I  have  beef-steaks 
put  to  my  eyes,  and  am  rubbed  with  vinegar  and  brandy, 
and  find  a  great  white  puffy  place  bursting  out  on  my  upper 
lip,  which  swells  immoderately.  For  three  or  four  days  I 
remain  at  home,  a  very  ill-looking  subject,  with  a  green 
shade  over  my  eyes;  and  I  should  be  very  dull,  but  that 
Agnes  is  a  sister  to  me,  and  condoles  with  me,  and  reads  to 
me,  and  makes  the  time  light  and  happy.  Agnes  has  my 
confidence  completely,  always;  I  tell  her  all  about  the 
butcher,  and  the  wrongs  he  has  heaped  upon  me;  and  she 
thinks  I  couldn't  have  done  otherwise  than  fight  the  butcher, 
while  she  shrinks  and  trembles  at  my  having  fought  him. 

Time  has  stolen  on  unobserved,  for  Adams  is  not  the 
head-boy  in  the  days  that  are  come  now,  nor  has  he  been 
this  many  and  many  a  day.  Adams  has  left  the  school  so 
long,  that  when  he  comes  back,  on  a  visit  to  Doctor  Strong, 
there  are  not  many  there,  besides  myself  who  know  him. 
Adams  is  going  to  be  called  to  the  bar  almost  directly,  and 
is  to  be  an  advocate,  and  to  wear  a  wig.  I  am  surprised  to 
find  him  a  meeker  man  than  I  had  thought,  and  less  im- 
posing in  appearance.  He  has  not  staggered  the  world  yet, 
either;  for  it  goes  on  (as  well  as  I  can  make  out)  pretty 
much  the  same  as  if  he  had  never  joined  it. 

A  blank,  through  which  the  warriors  of  poetry  and  his- 
tory march  on  in  stately  hosts  that  seem  to  have  no  end — 
and  what  comes  next !  I  am  the  head  boy,  now;  and  look 
down  on  the  line  of  boys  below  me,  with  a  condescending 
interest  in  such  of  them  as  bring  to  my  mind  the  boy  I  was 
myself,  when  I  first  came  there.  That  little  fellow  seems  to 
be  no  part  of  me;  I  remember  him  as  something  left  behind 
upon  the  road  of  life — as  something  I  have  passed,  rather 
than  have  actually  been — and  almost  think  of  him  as  of 
some  one  else. 

And  the  little  girl  I  saw  on  the  first  day  at  Mr.  Wick- 
field's,  where  is  she  ?  Gone  also.  In  her  stead,  the  perfect 
likeness  of  the  picture,  a  child  likeness  no  more,  moves 
about  the  house  ;  and  Agnes — my  sweet  sister,  as  I  call  her 


268  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  my  thoughts,  my  counsellor  and  friend,  the  better  angel 
of  the  lives  of  all  who  come  within  her  calm,  good,  self- 
denying  influence — is  quite  a  woman. 

What  other  changes  have  come  upon  me,  besides  the 
changes  in  my  growth  and  looks,  and  in  the  knowledge  1 
have  garnered  all  this  while  ?  I  wear  a  gold  watch  and  chain, 
a  ring  upon  my  little  finger,  and  a  long-tailed  coat  ;  and  I 
use  a  great  deal  of  bear's  grease — which,  taken  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  ring,  looks  bad.  Am  I  in  love  again  ?  I  am. 
I  worship  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins. 

The  eldest  Miss  Larkins  is  not  a  little  girl.  She  is  a  tall, 
dark,  black-eyed,  fine  figure  of  a  woman.  The  eldest  Miss 
Larkins  is  not  a  chicken  ;  for  the  youngest  Miss  Larkins  is 
not  that,  and  the  eldest  must  be  three  or  four  years  older. 
Perhaps  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  may  be  about  thirty.  My 
passion  for  her  is  beyond  all  bounds. 

The  eldest  Miss  Larkins  knows  officers.  It  is  an  awful 
thing  to  bear.  I  see  them  speaking  to  her  in  the  street.  I 
see  them  cross  the  way  to  meet  her,  when  her  bonnet  (she 
has  a  bright  taste  in  bonnets)  is  seen  coming  down  the  pave- 
ment, accompanied  by  her  sister's  bonnet.  She  laughs  and 
talks,  and  seems  to  like  it.  I  spend  a  good  deal  of  my  own 
spare  time  in  walking  up  and  down  to  meet  her.  If  I  can 
bow  to  her  once  in  the  day  (I  know  her  to  bow  to,  knowing 
Mr.  Larkins),  I  am  happier.  I  deserve  a  bow  now  and  then. 
The  raging  agonies  I  suffer  on  the  night  of  the  Race  Ball, 
where  I  know  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  will  be  dancing  with 
the  military,  ought  to  have  some  compensation,  if  there  be 
even-handed  justice  in  the  world. 

My  passion  takes  away  my  appetite,  and  makes  me  wear 
my  newest  silk  neck-kerchief  continually.  I  have  no  relief 
but  in  putting  on  my  best  clothes,  and  having  my  boots 
cleaned  over  and  over  again.  I  seem,  then,  to  be  worthier 
of  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins.  Everything  that  belongs  to  her, 
or  is  connected  with  her,  is  precious  to  me.  Mr.  Larkins  (a 
gruff  old  gentleman  with  a  double  chin,  and  one  of  his  eyes 
immovable  in  his  head)  is  fraught  with  interest  to  me.  When 
I  can't  meet  his  daughter,  I  go  where  I  am  likely  to  meet 
him.  To  say  **  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Larkins  ?  Are  the 
young  ladies  and  all  the  family  quite  well  ?"  seems  so  pointed, 
that  I  blush. 

I  think  continually  about  my  age.     Say  I  am  seventeen, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  269 

and  say  that  seventeen  is  young  for  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins, 
what  of  that?  Besides,  I  shall  be  one-and-twenty  in  no 
time  almost.  I  regularly  take  walks  outside  Mr.  Larkin's 
house  in  the  evening,  though  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see 
the  officers  go  in,  or  to  hear  them  up  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  plays  the  harp.  I  even  walk, 
on  two  or  three  occasions,  in  a  sickly,  spoony  manner,  round 
and  round  the  house  after  the  family  are  gone  to  bed,  won- 
dering which  is  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins's  chamber  (and 
pitching,  I  dare  say  now,  on  Mr.  Larkins's  instead)  ;  wishing 
that  a  fire  would  burst  out ;  that  the  assembled  crowd  would 
stand  appalled  ;  that  I,  dashing  through  them  with  a  ladder, 
might  rear  it  against  her  window,  save  her  in  my  arms,  go 
back  for  something  she  had  left  behind,  and  perish  in  the 
flames.  For  I  am  generally  disinterested  in  my  love,  and 
think  I  could  be  content  to  make  a  figure  before  Miss  Lar- 
kins  and  expire. 

— Generally,  but  not  always.  Sometimes  brighter  visions 
rise  before  me.  When  I  dress  (the  occupation  of  two 
hours),  for  a  great  ball  given  at  the  Larkins's  (the  anticipa- 
tion of  three  weeks),  I  indulge  my  fancy  with  pleasing 
images.  I  picture  myself  taking  courage  to  make  a  declara 
tion  to  Miss  Larkins.  I  picture  Miss  Larkins  sinking  her 
head  upon  my  shoulder,  and  saying,  "  Oh,  Mr,  Copperfield, 
can  I  believe  my  ears  !"  I  picture  Mr.  Larkins  waiting  on 
me  next  morning  and  saying,  "  My  dear  Copperfield,  my 
daughter  has  told  me  all.  Youth  is  no  objection.  Here  are 
twenty  thousand  pounds.  Be  happy  !"  I  picture  my  aunt 
relenting  and  blessing  us  ;  and  Mr.  Dick  and  Doctor  Strong 
being  present  at  the  marriage  ceremony.  I  am  a  sensible 
fellow,  I  believe — I  believe,  on  looking  back,  I  mean — and 
modest  I  am  sure  ;  but  all  this  goes  on  notwithstanding. 

I  repair  to  the  enchanted  house,  where  there  are  lights, 
chattering,  music,  flowers,  officers  (I  am  sorry  to  see),  and 
the  eldest  Miss  Larkins,  a  blaze  of  beauty.  She  is  dressed 
in  blue,  with  blue  flowers  in  her  hair — forget-me-nots — as  if 
she  had  any  need  to  wear  forget-me-nots  !  It  is  the  first 
really  grown-up  party  that  I  have  ever  been  invited  to,  and  I 
am  a  little  uncomfortable;  for  I  appear  not  to  belong  to 
anybody,  and  nobody  appears  to  have  anything  to  say  to  me, 
except  Mr.  Larkins,  who  asks  me  how  my  schoofellows  are, 
which  he  needn't  do,  as  I  have  not  come  there  to  be  insulted. 
But  after  I  have  stood  in  the  doorway  for  some  time,  and 
feasted  my  eyes  upon  the  goddess  of  my  heart,  she  approacnes 


270  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

me — she,  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  ! — and  asks  me,  pleasantly, 
if  I  dance. 

I  stammer,  with  a  bow,  "With  you.  Miss  Larkins." 

*'  With  no  one  else  ?"  inquires  Miss  Larkins. 

"  I  should  have  no  pleasure  in  dancing  with  anyone  else." 

Miss  Larkins  laughs  and  blushes  (or  I  think  she  blushes), 
and  says,  "  Next  time  but  one,  I  shall  be  very  glad." 

The  time  arrives.  "  It  is  a  waltz,  I  think,"  Miss  Larkins 
doubtfully  observes,  when  I  present  myself.  "  Do  you  waltz  ? 
If  not,  Captain  Bailey " 

But  I  do  waltz  (pretty  well,  too,  as  it  happens),  and  I  take 
Miss  Larkins  out.  I  take  her  sternly  from  the  side  of  Cap- 
tain Bailey.  He  is  wretched,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  he  is 
nothing  to  me.  I  have  been  wretched,  too.  I  waltz  with 
the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  !  I  don't  know  where,  among  whom, 
or  how  long.  I  only  know  that  I  swim  about  in  space,  with 
a  blue  angel,  in  a  state  of  blissful  delirium,  until  I  find  my- 
self alone  with  her  in  a  little  room,  resting  on  a  sofa.  She 
admires  a  flower  (pink  camelia  japonica,  price  half-a-crown), 
in  my  button-hole.     I  give  it  her,  and  say: 

"  I  ask  an  inestimable  price  for  it.  Miss  Larkins." 

"  Indeed  !     What  is  that  ?"  returns  Miss  Larkins. 

"  A  flower  of  yours,  that  I  may  treasure  it  as  a  miser  does 
gold." 

"  You're  a  bold  boy,"  says  Miss  Larkins.     "  There." 

She  gives  it  me,  not  displeased;  and  I  put  it  to  my  lips, 
and  then  into  my  breast.  Miss  Larkins,  laughing,  draws  her 
hand  through  my  arm,  and  says,  **  Now  takr^  me  back  to 
Captain  Bailey." 

I  am  lost  in  the  recollection  of  this  delicious  interview, 
and  the  waltz,  when  she  comes  to  me  again,  with  a  plain 
elderly  gentleman,  who  has  been  playing  whist  all  night,  upon 
her  arm,  and  says: 

"  O!  here  is  my  bold  friend  !  Mr.  Chestle  wants  to  know 
you,  Mr.  Copperfield." 

I  feel  at  once  that  he  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  and  am 
much  gratified. 

"  I  admire  your  taste,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chestle.  "  It  does  you 
credit.  I  suppose  you  don't  take  much  interest  in  hops; 
but  I  am  a  pretty  large  grower  myself;  and  if  you  ever  like 
to  come  over  to  our  neighborhood — neighborhood  of  Ash- 
ford — and  take  a  run  about  our  place,  we  should  be  glad  for 
you  to  stop  as  long  as  you  like." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  271 

I  thank  Mr.  Chestle  warmly,  and  shake  hands.  I 
think  I  am  in  a  happy  dream.  I  waltz  with  the  eldest  Miss 
Larkins  once  again — she  says  I  waltz  so  well  !  I  go  home 
in  a  state  of  unspeakable  bliss,  and  waltz,  in  imagination,  all 
night  long,  with  my  arm  round  the  blue  waist  of  my  dear 
divinity.  For  some  days  afterwards,  I  am  lost  in  rapturous 
reflections;  but  I  neither  see  her  in  the  street,  nor  when  I 
call.  I  am  perfectly  consoled  for  this  disappointment  by  the 
sacred  pledge,  the  perished  flower. 

*' Trotwood,"  says  Agnes,  one  day  after  dinner.  "Who 
do  you  think  is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow  ?  Some  one 
you  admire." 

"  Not  you,  I  suppose,  Agnes  ?'* 

"  Not  me  !"  raising  her  cheerful  face  from  the  music  she 
is  copying.  "  Do  you  hear  him  papa  ? — The  eldest  Miss 
Larkins." 

"  To — to  Captain  Bailey  ?"  I  have  just  power  enough  to 
ask. 

"  No;  to  no  Captain.     To  Mr.  Chestle,  a  hop-grower." 

I  am  terribly  dejected  for  about  a  week  or  two.  I  take  off 
my  ring,  I  wear  my  worst  clothes,  I  use  no  bear's  grease,  and 
1  frequently  lament  over  the  late  Miss  Larkins'  faded  flower. 
Being,  by  that  time,  rather  tired  of  this  kind  of  life,  and 
having  received  new  provocation  from  the  butcher,  I  throw 
the  flower  away,  go  out  with  the  butcher,  and  gloriously  de- 
feat him. 

This,  and  the  resumption  of  my  ring,  as  well  as  of  the 
bear's  grease  in  moderation,  are  the  last  marks  I  can  discern, 
now,  in  my  progress  to  seventeen. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

I   LOOK    ABOUT    ME,    AND    MAKE    A    BISCOVERY. 

I  AM  doubtful  whether  I  was  at  heart  glad  or  sorry,  when 
my  school- days  drew  to  an  end,  and  the  time  came  for  my 
leaving  Doctor  Strong's.  I  had  been  very  happy  there,  I 
had  a  great  attachment  for  the  Doctor,  and  I  was  eminent 
and  distinguished  in  that  little  world.  For  these  reasons  I 
was  sorry  to  go  ;  but  for  other  reasons,  unsubstantial  enough, 
I  was  glad.     Misty  ideas  of  being  a  young  man  at  my  own 


272  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

disposal,  of  the  importance  attaching  to  a  young  man  at  his 
own  disposal,  of  the  wonderful  things  to  be  seen  and  done, 
by  that  magnificent  animal,  and  the  wonderful  effects  he 
could  not  fail  to  make  upon  society,  lured  me  away.  So 
powerful  were  these  visionary  considerations  in  my  boyish 
mind,  that  I  seem,  according  to  my  present  way  of  thinking, 
to  have  left  school  without  natural  regret.  The  separation 
has  not  made  the  impression  on  me,  that  other  separations 
have.  I  try  in  vain  to  recall  how  I  felt  about  it,  and  what 
its  circumstances  were  ;  but  it  is  not  momentous  in  my  re- 
collection. I  suppose  the  opening  prospect  confused  me. 
I  know  that  my  juvenile  experiences  went  for  little  or  noth- 
ing then  ;  and  that  life  was  more  like  a  great  fairy  story, 
which  I  was  just  about  to  begin  to  read,  than  anything  else. 

My  aunt  and  I  had  held  many  grave  deliberations  on  the 
calling  to  which  I  should  be  devoted.  For  a  year  or  more 
I  had  endeavored  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  to  her  often- 
repeated  question,  "  What  I  would  like  to  be  ?"  But  I  had 
no  particular  liking,  that  I  could  discover,  for  anything. 
If  I  could  have  been  inspired  with  a  knowledge  of  the  science 
of  navigation,  taken  the  command  of  a  fast-sailing  expedi- 
tion, and  gone  round  the  world  on  a  triumphant  voyage  of 
discovery,  I  think  I  might  have  considered  myself  com- 
pletely suited.  But,  in  the  absence  of  any  such  miraculous 
provision,  my  desire  was  to  apply  myself  to  some  pursuit 
that  would  not  lie  too  heavily  upon  her  purse  ;  and  to  do  my 
duty  in  it,  whatever  it  might  be. 

Mr.  Dick  had  regularly  assisted  at  our  councils,  with  a 
meditative  and  sage  demeanor.  He  never  made  a  suggestion 
but  once  ;  and  on  that  occasion  (I  don't  know  what  put  it 
in  his  head),  he  suddenly  proposed  that  I  should  be  "  a 
brazier."  My  aunt  received  this  proposal  so  very  ungra- 
ciously, that  he  never  ventured  on  a  second  ;  but  ever  after- 
wards confined  himself  to  looking  watchfully  at  her  for  her 
suggestions,  and  rattling  his  money. 

"  Trot,  I  tell  you  what,  my  dear,"  said  my  aunt  one  morn- 
ing, in  the  Christmas  season  when  I  left  school ;  "  as  this 
knotty  point  is  still  unsettled,  and  as  we  must  not  make  a 
mistake  in  our  decision  if  we  can  help  it,  I  think  we  had 
better  take  a  little  breathing-time.  In  the  meanwhile,  you 
must  try  to  look  at  it  from  a  new  point  of  view,  and  not  as 
a  schoolboy." 

"  I  will,  aunt." 

"It  has  occurred  to  me,"  pursued  my  aunt,  "  that  a  little 
change,  and  a  glimpse  oi  iilw  out  of  doors,  may  be  useful,  in 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  273 

helping  you  to  know  your  own  mind,  and  form  a  cooler 
judgment.  Suppose  you  were  to  take  a  little  journey  now. 
Suppose  you  were  to  go  down  into  the  old  part  of  the  coun- 
try again,  for  instance,  and  see  that — that  out-of-the-way 
woman  with  the  savagest  of  names,"  said  my  aunt,  rubbing 
her  nose,  for  she  could  never  thoroughly  forgive  Peggotty 
for  being  so  called. 

"  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  aunt,  I  should  like  it  best !" 

"  Well,"  said  my  aunt,  **  that's  lucky,  for  I  should  like  it 
too.  But  it's  natural  and  rational  that  you  should  like  it. 
And  I  am  very  well  persuaded  that  whatever  you  do,  Trot, 
will  always  be  natural  and  rational." 

"  I  hope  so,  aunt." 

"  Your  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood,"  said  my  aunt,  "  would 
have  been  as  natural  and  rational  a  girl  as  ever  breathed. 
You'll  be  worthy  of  her,  won't  you  ?" 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  worthy  of  you,  aunt.  That  will  be 
enough  for  me." 

"  It's  a  mercy  that  poor  dear  baby  of  a  mother  of  your's 
didn't  live,"  said  my  aunt,  looking  at  me  approvingly,  "  or 
she'd  have  been  so  vain  of  her  boy  by  this  time,  that  her 
soft  little  head  would  have  been  completely  turned,  if  there 
was  anything  of  it  left  to  turn."  (My  aunt  always  excused 
any  weakness  of  her  own  in  my  behalf,  by  transferring  it  in 
this  way  to  my  poor  mother.)  "  Bless  me,  Trotwood,  how 
you  do  remind  me  of  her  !" 

"  Pleasantly,  I  hope,  aunt  ?"  said  I. 

"  He's  as  like  her,  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  emphatically, 
*'  he's  as  like  her,  as  she  was  that  afternoon,  before  she  be- 
gan to  fret — bless  my  heart,  he's  as  like  her,  as  he  can  look 
at  me  out  of  his  two  eyes!" 

"  Is  he  indeed  .>"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

"  And  he's  like  David,  too,"  said  my  aunt,  decisively. 

"  He's  very  like  David!"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

"  But  what  I  want  you  to  be,  Trot,"  resumed  my  aunt 
— "  I  don't  mean  physically,  but  morally;  you  are  very  well 
physically — is,  a  firm  fellow.  A  fine  firm  fellow,  with  a  will 
of  your  own.  With  resolution,"  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her 
cap  at  me,  and  clenching  her  hand.  ''  With  determination. 
With  character,  Trot — with  strength  of  character,  that  is  not 
to  be  influenced,  except  on  good  reason,  by  anybody,  or  by 
anything.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  be.  That's  what  your 
father  and  mother  might  both  have  been.  Heaven  knows, 
and  been  the  better  for  it." 


274  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  intimated  that  I  hoped  I  should  be  what  she  des- 
cribed. 

"  That  you  may  begin,  in  a  small  way,  to  have  a  reliance 
upon  yourself,  and  to  act  for  yourself,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I 
shall  send  you  upon  your  trip,  alone.  I  did  think,  once, 
of  Mr.  Dick's  going  with  you;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I 
shall  keep  him  to  take  care  of  me." 

Mr.  Dick,  for  a  moment,  looked  a  little  disappointed,  un- 
til  the  honor  and  dignity  of  having  to  take  care  of  the 
most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  restored  the  sunshine 
to  his  face. 

''  Besides,"  said  my  aunt,  "  there's  the  Memorial " 

*'  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  in  a  hurry.  "  I  intend, 
Trotwood,  to  get  that  done  immediately — it  really  must  be 
done  immediately!  And  then  it  will  go  in,  you  know — and 
then,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  after  checking  himself,  and  pausing  a 
long  time,  "there'll  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish!" 

In  pursuance  of  my  aunt's  kind  scheme,  I  was  shortly 
afterwards  fitted  out  with  a  handsome  purse  of  money,  and 
a  portmanteau,  and  tenderly  dismissed  upon  my  expedition. 
At  parting,  my  aunt  gave  me  some  good  advice,  and  a  good 
many  kisses;  and  said  that  as  her  object  was  that  I  should 
look  about  me,  and  should  think  a  little,  she  would  recom- 
mend me  to  stay  a  few  days  in  London,  if  I  liked  it,  either 
on  my  way  down  into  Suffolk,  or  in  coming  back.  In  a  word, 
I  was  at  liberty  to  do  as  I  would,  for  three  weeks  or  a  month; 
and  no  other  conditions  were  imposed  upon  my  freedom 
than  the  before-mentioned  thinking  and  looking  about  me, 
and  a  pledge  to  write  three  times  a  week  and  faithfully  re- 
port myself. 

I  went  to  Canterbury  first,  that  I  might  take  leave  of  Ag- 
nes and  Mr.  Wickfield  (my  old  room  in  whose  house  I  had 
not  yet  relinquished),  and  also  of  the  good  Doctor.  Agnes 
was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  told  me  that  the  house  had  not 
been  like  itself  since  I  had  left  it. 

"I  am  sure  I  am  not  like  myself  when  I  am  away,"  said  I. 
"  I  seem  to  want  my  right  hand,  when  I  miss  you.  Though 
that's  not  saying  much;  for  there's  no  head  in  my  right  hand, 
and  no  heart.  Every  one  who  knows  you  consults  with 
you,  and  is  guided  by  you,  Agnes." 

"  Every  one  who  knows  me,  spoils  me,  I  believe,"  she 
answered,  smiling. 

"  No.     It's  because  you  are  like  no  one  else.     You  are  so 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  275 

good,  and  so  sweet-tempered.  You  have  such  a  gentle  na- 
ture, and  you  are  always  right." 

"  You  talk,"  said  Agnes,  breaking  into  a  pleasant  laugh, 
as  she  sat  at  work,  "  as  if  I  were  the  late  Miss  Larkins." 

"  Come!  It's  not  fair  to  abuse  my  confidence,"  I  answer- 
ed, reddening  at  the  recollection  of  my  blue  enslaver.  "  But 
I  shall  confide  in  you^just  the  same,  Agnes.  I  can  never 
grow  out  of  that.  Whenever  I  fall  into  trouble,  or  fall  in 
love,  I  shall  always  tell  you,  if  you'll  let  me — even  when  I  fall 
in  love  in  earnest." 

"Why,  you  have  always  been  in  earnest!"  said  Agnes, 
laughing  again. 

"  Oh  I  that  was  as  a  child,  or  a  school-boy,"  said  I,  laugh- 
ing in  my  turn,  not  without  being  a  little  shame-faced. 
"  Times  are  altering  now,  and  I  suppose  I  shall  be  in  a  ter- 
rible state  of  earnestness  one  day  or  other.  My  wonder  is, 
that  you  are  not  in  earnest  yourself,  by  this  time,  Agnes." 

Agnes  laughed  again,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  are  not!"  said  I;  "because,  if  you  had 
been,  you  would  have  told  me.  Or  at  least," — for  I  saw  a 
faint  blush  in  her  face, — "  you  would  have  let  me  find  it  out 
for  myself.-  Bet  there  is  no  one  that  I  know  of,  who  de- 
serves to  love  you,  Agnes.  Some  one  of  a  nobler  character, 
and  more  worthy  altogether  than  any  one  I  have  ever  seen 
here,  must  rise  up,  before  I  give  my  consent.  In  the  time 
to  come,  I  shall  have  a  wary  eye  on  all  admirers;  and  shall 
exact  a  great  deal  from  the  successful  one,  I  assure  you." 

We  had  gone  on,  so  far,  in  a  mixture  of  confidential  jest 
and  earnest,  that  had  long  grown  naturally  out  of  our  famil- 
iar relations,  begun  as  mere  children.  But  Agnes,  now  sud- 
denly lifting  up  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  speaking  in  a  differ- 
ent manner,  said: 

"  Trotwood,  there  is  something  that  I  want  to  ask  you, 
and  that  I  may  not  have  another  opportunity  of  asking  for 
a  long  time,  perhaps — something  I  would  ask,  I  think,  of  no 
one  else.  Have  you  observed  any  gradual  alteration  in 
papa?" 

I  had  observed  it,  and  had  often  wondered  whether  she 
had  too.  I  must  have  shown  as  much  now,  in  my  face;  for 
her  eyes  were  in  a  moment  cast  down,  and  I  saw  tears  in 
them. 

"  Tell  we  what  it  is,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  think — shall  I  be  quite  plain,  Agnes,  liking  him  so 
much  ?" 


37«  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  he  does  himself  no  good  by  the  habit  that  has 
increased  upon  him  since  I  first  came  here.  He  is  often 
very  nervous — or  I  fancy  so." 

"  It  is  not  fancy,"  said  Agnes,  shaking  her  head. 

"  His  hand  trembles,  his  speech  is  not  plain^  and  his  eyei> 
look  wild.  I  have  remarked  that  at  those  times,  and  when 
he  is  least  like  himself,  he  is  most  certain  to  be  wanted  on 
some  business." 

"By  Uriah,"  said  Agnes. 

"Yes;  and  the  sense  of  being  unfit  for  it,  or  of  not  hav- 
ing understood  it,  or  of  having  shown  his  condition  in  spite 
of  himself,  seems  to  make  him  so  uneasy,  that  next  day  he 
is  worse,  and  next  day  worse,  and  so  he  becomes  jaded  and 
haggard.  Do  not  be  alarmed  by  what  I  say,  Agnes,  but  in 
this  state  I  saw  him,  only  the  other  evening,  lay  down  his 
head  upon  his  desk,  and  shed  tears  like  a  child." 

Her  hand  passed  softly  before  my  lips  while  I  was  yet 
speaking,  and  in  a  moment  she  had  met  her  father  at  the 
door  of  the  room,  and  was  hanging  on  his  shoulder.  The 
expression  of  her  face,  as  they  both  looked  towards  me,  I 
felt  to  be  very  touching.  There  was  such  deep  fondness 
for  him,  and  gratitude  to  him  for  all  his  love  and  care,  in 
her  beautiful  look;  and  there  was  such  a  fervent  appeal  to 
me  to  deal  tenderly  by  him  even  in  my  inmost  thoughts,  and 
to  let  no  harsh  construction  find  any  place  against  him;  she 
was,  at  once  so  proud  of  him  and  devoted  to  him  yet  so 
compassionate  and  sorry,  and  so  reliant  upon  me  to  be  so, 
too;  that  nothing  she  could  have  said  would  have  expressed 
more  to  me,  or  moved  me  more. 

We  were  to  drink  tea  at  the  Doctor's.  We  went  there  at 
the  usual  hour,  and  round  the  study-fireside  found  the  Doc- 
tor, and  his  young  wife,  and  her  mother.  The  Doctor,  who 
made  as  much  of  my  going  away  as  if  I  were  going  to 
China,  received  me  as  an  honored  guest,  and  called  for  a  log 
of  wood  to  be  thrown  on  the  fire,  that  he  might  see  the  face 
of  his  old  pupil  reddening  in  the  blaze. 

"  I  shall  not  see  many  more  new  faces  in  Trotwood's 
stead,  Wickfield,"  said  the  Doctor,  warming  his  hands;  "I 
am  getting  lazy,  and  want  ease.  I  shall  relinquish  all  my 
young  people  in  another  six  months,  and  lead  a  quieter 
life." 

"You  have  said  so,  any  time  these  ten  years,  Doctor," 
Mr.  Wickfield  answered. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  277 

"  But  now  I  mean  to  do  it,"  returned  the  Doctor.  "  My 
first  master  will  succeed  me — I  am  in  earnest  at  last — so 
you'll  soon  have  to  arrange  our  contracts,  and  to  bind  us 
firmly  to  them,  like  a  couple  of  knaves." 

"  And  to  take  care,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  "  that  you're  not 
imposed  on,  eh  ? — as  you  certainly  would  be,  in  any  contract 
you  should  make  for  yourself.  Well !  I  am  ready.  There 
are  worse  tasks  than  that,  in  my  calling." 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  to  think  of  then,"  said  the  Doctor, 
with  a  smile,  "  biit  my  Dictionary;  and  this  other  contract- 
bargain — Annie." 

As  Mr.  Wickfield  glanced  towards  her,  sitting  at  the  tea- 
table  by  Agnes,  she  seemed  to  me  to  avoid  his  look  with 
such  unwonted  hesitation  and  timidity,  that  hisattention  be- 
came fixed  upon  her,  as  if  something  were  suggested  to  his 
thoughts. 

"  There  is  a  post  come  in  from  India,  I  observe;"  he  said, 
after  a  short  silence. 

"  By-the-by  !  and  letters  from  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  !"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"  Poor  dear  Jack  !"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  shaking  her 
head.  "  That  trying  climate  ! — like  living,  they  tell  me,  on 
a  sand-heap,  underneath  a  burning-glass  !  He  looked 
strong,  but  he  wasn't.  My  dear  Doctor,  it  was  his  spirit, 
not  his  constitution,  that  he  ventured  on  so  boldly.  Annie, 
my  dear,  I  am  sure  you  must  perfectly  recollect  that  your 
cousin  never  was  strong — not  what  can  be  called  robust^  you 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  with  emphasis,  and  looking 
round  upon  us  generally — "  from  the  time  when  my  daugh- 
ter and  himself  were  children  together,  and  walking  about, 
arm  in  arm,  the  livelong  day." 

Annie,  thus  addressed,  made  no  reply. 

"  Do  I  gather  from  what  you  say,  ma'am,  that  Mr. 
Maldon  is  ill  ?"  asked  Mr.  Wickfield. 

"  111  ?"  replied  the  Old  Soldier.  "  My  dear  sir,  he  is  all 
sorts  of  things." 

"  Except  well  ?"  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

"  Except  well,  indeed  !"  said  the  Old  Soldier.  "  He  has 
had  dreadful  strokes  of  the  sun,  no  doubt,  and  jungle  fevers 
and  agues,  and  every  kind  of  thing  you  can  mention.  As 
to  his  liver,"  said  the  Old  Soldier  resignedly,  "  that,  of 
course,  he  gave  up  altogether,  when  he  first  went  out  !" 


278  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  Does  he  say  all  this  ?"  asked  Mr,  Wickfield. 

"  Say  ?  My  dear  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Markleham,  shaking 
her  head  and  her  fan,  "  you  little  know  my  poor  Jack  Mal- 
don  when  you  ask  that  question.  Say  ?  Not  he.  You 
might  drag  him  at  the  heels  of  four  wild  horses  first." 

"  Mamma  !"  said  Mrs.  Strong. 

"  Annie,  my  dear,"  returned  her  mother,  "  once  for  all,  I 
must  really  beg  that  you  will  not  interfere  with  me,  unless  it 
is  to  confirm  what  I  say.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
your  cousin  Maldon  would  be  dragged  at  the  heels  of  any 
number  of  wild  horses — why  should  I  confine  myself  to 
four  !  I  wofit  confine  myself  to  four — eight,  sixteen,  two- 
and-thirty,  rather  than  say  anything  calculated  to  overturn 
the  Doctor's  plans." 

"  Wickfield's  plans,"  said  the  Doctor,  stroking  his  face, 
and  looking  penitently  at  his  adviser.  "That  is  to  say, 
our  joint  plans  for  him.    I  said  myself,  abroad  or  at  home." 

"And  I  said,"  added  Mr.  Wickfield,  gravely,  "abroad.  I 
was  the  means  of  sending  him  abroad.  It's  my  responsi- 
bility." 

"  Oh  !  Responsibility  !"  said  the  Old  Soldier.  "  Every- 
thing was  done  for  the  best,  my  dear  Mr.  Wickfield;  every- 
thing was  done  for  the  kindest  and  best,  we  know.  But  if 
the  dear  fellow  can't  live  there,  he  can't  live  there.  And  if 
he  can't  live  there,  he'll  die  there,  sooner  than  he'll  overturn 
the  Doctor's  plans.  I  know  him;"  said  the  Old  Soldier, 
fanning  herself,  in  a  sort  of  calm  prophetic  agony,  "  and  I 
know  he'll  die  there,  sooner  than  he'll  overturn  the  Doctor's 
plans." 

"  Well,  well,  ma'am,"  said  the  Doctor,  cheerfully,  "  I  am 
not  bigoted  to  my  plans,  and  I  can  overturn  them  myself.  I 
can  substitute  some  other  plans.  If  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  comes 
home  on  account  of  ill  health,  he  must  not  be  allowed  to  go 
back,  and  we  must  endeavor  to  make  some  more  suitable 
and  fortunate  provision  for  him  in  this  country." 

Mrs.  Markleham  was  so  overcome  by  this  generous  speech 
— which,  I  need  not  say,  she  had  not  at  all  expected  or  led 
up  to — that  she  could  only  tell  the  Doctor  it  was  like  him- 
self, and  go  several  times  through  that  operation  of  kissing 
the  sticks  of  her  fan,  and  then  tapping  his  hand  with  it. 
After  which  she  gently  chid  her  daughter  Annie,  for  not  be- 
ing more  demonstrative  when  such  kindnesses  were  show- 
ered, for  her  sake,  on  her  old  playfellow,  and  entertained  us 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  279 

with  some  particulars  concerning  other  deserving  members 
of  her  family,  whom  it  was  desirable  to  set  on  their  deserv- 
ing legs. 

All  this  time,  her  daughter  Annie  never  once  spoke,  or 
lifted  up  her  eyes.  All  this  time,  Mr.  Wickfield  had  his 
glance  upon  her  as  she  sat  by  his  own  daughter's  side.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  he  never  thought  of  being  observed  by 
any  one  ;  but  was  so  intent  upon  her,  and  upon  his  own 
thoughts  in  connexion  with  her,  as  to  be  quite  absorbed. 
He  now  asked  what  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  had  actually  written 
in  reference  to  himself,  and  to  whom  he  had  written  it  ? 

"  "Why,  here,"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  taking  a  letter  from 
the  chimney-piece  above  the  Doctor's  head,  ''  the  dear  fel- 
low says  to  the  Doctor  himself — where  is  it  ?  Oh  ! — *  I  am 
sorry  to  inform  you  that  my  health  is  suffering  severely,  and 
that  I  fear  I  may  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  returning 
home  for  a  time,  as  the  only  hope  of  restoration.'  That's 
pretty  plain,  poor  fellow  !  His  only  hope  of  restoration  1 
But  Annie's  letter  is  plainer  still.  Annie,  show  me  that  let- 
ter again." 

"  Not  now,  mamma,"  she  pleaded  in  a  low  tone. 

"  My  dear,  you  absolutely  are,  on  some  subjects,  one  of 
the  most  ridiculous  persons  in  the  world,"  returned  her 
mother,  "  and  perhaps  the  most  unnatural  to  the  claims  of 
your  own  family.  We  never  should  have  heard  of  the  let- 
ter at  all,  I  beheve,  unless  I  had  asked  for  it  myself.  Do 
you  call  that  confidence,  my  love,  towards  Doctor  Strong  ? 
I  am  surprised.     You  ought  to  know  better." 

The  letter  was  reluctantly  produced  ;  and  as  I  handed  it 
to  the  old  lady,  I  saw  how  the  unwilling  hand  from  which  I 
took  it,  trembled. 

"  Now  let  us  see,"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  putting  her  glass 
to  her  eye,  "  where  the  passage  is.  *  The  remembrance  of 
old  times,  my  dearest  Annie' — and  so  forth — it's  not  there. 
'  The  amiable  old  Proctor  ' — who's  he  ?  Dear  me,  Annie, 
how  illegibly  your  cousin  Maldon  writes,  and  how  stupid  I 
am  !  *  Doctor,'  of  course.  Ah  !  amiable  indeed  !"  Here 
she  left  off,  to  kiss  her  fan  again,  and  shake  it  at  the  Doctor, 
who  was  looking  at  us  in  a  state  of  placid  satisfaction. 
"  Now  I  have  found  it.  '  You  may  not  be  surprised  to  hear, 
Annie  ' — no,  to  be  sure,  knowing  that  he  never  was  really 
strong;  what  did  I  say  just  now? — 'that  I  have  undergone 
so  much  in  this  distant  place,  as  to  have  decided  to  leave  it 
at  all  hazards;  on   sick  leave,  if  I  can;  on  total  resignation, 


28o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

if  that  is  not  to  be  obtained.  What  I  have  endured,  and  do 
endure  here,  is  insupportable.'  And  but  for  the  promptitude 
of  that  best  of  creatures,"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  telegraph- 
ing the  Doctor  as  before,  and  refolding  the  letter,  "  it  would 
be  insupportable  to  me  to  think  of." 

Mr.  Wickfield  said  not  one  word,  though  the  old  lady 
looked  to  him  as  if  for  his  commentary  on  this  intelligence; 
but  sat  severely  silent,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
Long  after  the  subject  was  dismissed,  and  other  topics  oc- 
cupied us,  he  remained  so;  seldom  raising  his  eyes,  unless  to 
rest  them  for  a  moment,  with  a  thoughtful  frown,  upon  the 
Doctor,  or  his  wife,  or  both. 

The  Doctor  was  very  fond  of  music.  Agnes  sang  with 
great  sweetness  and  expression,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Strong. 
They  sang  together,  and  played  duets  together,  and  we  had 
quite  a  little  concert.  But  I  remarked  two  things:  first,  that 
though  Annie  soon  recovered  her  composure,  and  was  quite 
herself,  there  was  a  blank  between  her  and  Mr.  Wickfield, 
which  separated  them  wholly  from  each  other;  secondly, 
that  Mr.  Wickfield  seemed  to  dislike  the  intimacy  between 
her  and  Agnes,  and  to  watch  it  with  uneasiness.  And  now, 
I  must  confess,  the  recollection  of  what  I  had  seen  on  that 
night  when  Mr.  Maldon  went  away,  first  began  to  return  up- 
on me  with  a  meaning  it  had  never  had,  and  to  trouble  me. 
The  innocent  beauty  of  her  face  was  not  as  innocent  to  me 
as  it  had  been;  I  mistrusted  the  natural  grace  and  charm  of 
her  manner;  and  when  I  looked  at  Agnes  by  her  side,  and 
thought  how  good  and  true  Agnes  was,  suspicion  arose 
within  me  that  it  was  an  ill-assorted  friendship. 

She  was  so  happy  in  it  herself,  however,  and  the  other 
was  so  happy  too,  that  they  made  the  evening  fly  away  as  if 
It  were  but  an  hour.  It  closed  in  an  incident  which  I  well 
remember.  They  were  taking  leave  of  each  other,  and 
/Vgnes  was  going  to  embrace  her  and  kiss  her,  when  Mr. 
Wickfield  stepped  between  them,  as  if  by  accident,  and 
drew  Agnes  quickly  away.  Then  I  saw,  as  though  all  the 
intervening  time  had  been  canceled,  and  I  were  still  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  on  the  night  of  the  departure,  the  ex- 
pression of  that  night  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Strong,  as  it  con- 
fronted his. 

I  cannot  say  what  an  impression  this  made  upon  me,  or 
how  impossible  I  found  it,  when  I  thought  of  her  after- 
wards, to  separate  her  from  this  look,  and  remember  her  face 
in  its  innocent  loveliness  again.     It  haunted  me  when  I  got 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  281 

home.  I  seemed  to  have  left  the  Doctor's  roof  with  a  dark 
cloud  lowering  on  it.  The  reverence  that  I  had  for  his  grey- 
head,  was  mingled  with  commiseration  for  his  faith  in  those 
who  were  treacherous  to  him,  and  with  resentment  against 
those  who  injured  him.  The  impending  shadow  of  a  great 
affliction,  and  a  great  disgrace  that  had  no  distinct  form  in 
it  yet,  fell  like  a  stain  upon  the  quiet  place  where  I  had 
worked  and  played  as  a  boy,  and  did  it  a  cruel  wrong.  I 
had  no  pleasure  in  thinking,  any  more,  of  the  grave  old 
broad-leaved  aloe-trees  which  remained  shut  up  in  them- 
selves a  hundred  years  together,  and  of  the  trim,  smooth 
grass-plot,  and  the  stone  urns,  and  the  Doctor's  walk,  and 
the  congenial  sound  of  the  cathedral  bell  hovering  above 
them  all.  It  was  as  if  the  tranquil'sanctuary  of  my  boyhood 
had  been  sacked  before  my  face,  and  its  peace  and  honor 
given  to  the  winds. 

But  morning  brought  with  it  my  parting  from  the  old 
house,  which  Agnes  had  filled  with  her  influence;  and  that 
occupied  my  mind  sufficiently.  I  should  be  there  again 
soon,  no  doubt;  I  might  sleep  again — perhaps  often — in  my 
old  room;  but  the  days  of  my  inhabiting  there  were  gone, 
and  the  old  time  was  past.  I  was  heavier  at  heart  when  I 
packed  up  such  of  my  books  and  clothes  as  still  remained 
there  to  be  sent  to  Dover,  than  I  cared  to  show  to  Uriah 
Heep:  who  was  so  officious  to  help  me,  that  I  uncharitably 
thought  him  mighty  glad  that  I  was  going. 

I  got  away  from  Agnes  and  her  father;  somehow,  with  an 
indifferent  show  of  being  very  manly,  and  took  my  seat  up- 
on the  box  of  the  London  coach.  I  was  so  softened  and 
forgiving,  going  through  the  town,  that  I  had  half  a  mind  to 
nod  to  my  old  enemy  the  butcher,  and  throw  him  five  shil- 
lings to  drink.  But  he  looked  such  a  very  obdurate  butcher 
as  he  stood  scraping  the  great  block  in  the  shop,  and  more- 
over, his  appearance  was  so  little  improved  by  the  loss  of  a 
front  tooth  which  I  had  knocked  out,  that  I  thought  it  best 
to  make  no  advances. 

The  main  object  on  my  mind,  I  remember,  when  we  got 
fairly  on  the  road,  was  to  appear  as  old  as  possible  to  the 
coachman,  and  to  speak  extremely  gruff.  The  latter  point 
I  achieved  at  great  personal  inconvenience;  but  I  stuck  to 
it,  because  I  felt  it  was  a  grown-up  sort  of  thing. 

"  You  are  going  through,  sir  ?"  said  the  coachman. 

"Yes,  William,"  I  said  condescendingly  (I  knew  him);  "I 
am  going  to  London.  I  shall  go  down  into  Suffolk  after- 
wards." 


282  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  Shooting,  sir  ?"  said  the  coachman. 

He  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  it  was  just  as  likely,  at  that 
time  of  year,  I  was  going  down  there  whaling;  but  I  felt 
complimented,  too. 

*'  I  don't  know,"  I  said,  pretending  to  be  undecided, 
**  whether  I  shall  take  a  shot  or  not." 

"  Birds  is  got  wery  shy,  I'm  told,"  said  William. 

"  So  I  understand,"  said  I. 

"  Is  Suffolk  your  county,  sir  ?"  asked  William. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  some  importance,  "  Suffolk's  my 
county." 

"I'm  told  the  dumplings  is  uncommon  fine  down  there," 
said  William. 

I  was  not  aware  of  it  myself,  but  I  felt  it  necessary  to  up- 
hold the  institutions  of  my  county,  and  to  evince  a  familiar- 
ity with  them;  so  I  shook  my  head,  as  much  as  to  say  "I 
believe  you." 

"And  the  punches,"  said  William.  "  There's  cattle!  A 
Suffolk  punch,  when  he's  a  good  un,  is  worth  his  weight  in 
gold.  Did  you  ever  breed  any  Suffolk  punches  yourself, 
sir?" 

"  N— no,"  I  said,  "  not  exactly." 

"Here's  a  gen'lm'n  behind  me,  I'll  pound  it,"  said  Wil- 
liam, "  as  has  bred  'em  by  wholesale." 

The  gentleman  spoken  of  was  a  gentleman  with  a  very 
unpromising  squint,  and  a  prominent  chin,  who  had  a  tall 
white  hat  on  with  a  narrow  flat  brim,  and  whose  close-fitting 
drab  trousers  seemed  to  button  all  the  way  up  outside  his 
legs  from  his  boots  to  his  hips.  His  chin  was  cocked  over 
the  coachman's  shoulder,  so  near  to  me,  that  his  breath 
quite  tickled  the  back  of  my  head;  and  as  I  looked  round 
,at  him,  he  leered  at  the  leaders  with  the  eye  with  which  he 
didn't  squint,  in  a  very  knowing  manner. 

"Ain't  you  ?"  said  William. 

"Ain't  I  what  ?"  asked  the  gentleman  behind. 

"  Bred  them  Suffolk  punches  by  wholesale  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  the  gentleman.  "  There  ain*t 
no  sort  of  orse  that  I  ain't  bred,  and  no  sort  of  dorg.  Orses 
and  dorgs  is  some  men's  fancy.  They're  wittles  and  drink 
to  me — lodging,  wife,  and  children — reading,  writing  and 
'rithmetic — snuff,  tobacker,  and  sleep." 

"  That  ain't  a  sort  of  man  to  see  sitting  behind  a  coach- 
box, is  it  though .''"  said  William  in  my  ear,  as  he  handled 
the  reins. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  283 

1  construed  this  remark  into  an  indication  of  a  wish  that 
he  should  have  my  place,  so  I  blushingly  offered  to  resign  it, 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,"  said  William,  "  I  think  it 
wou/d  he  more  correct."* 

I  have  always  considered  this  as  the  first  fall  I  had  in  life. 
When  I  booked  my  place  at  the  coach-office,  I  had  had 
"  Box  Seat "  written  against  the  entry,  and  had  given  the 
book-keeper  half-a-crown.  I  was  got  up  in  a  special  great 
coat  and  shawl,  expressly  to  do  honor  to  that  distinguished 
eminence;  I  had  glorified  myself  upon  it  a  good  deal;  and 
had  felt  that  I  was  a  credit  to  the  coach.  And  here,  in  the 
very  first  stage,  I  was  supplanted  by  a  shabby  man  with  a 
squint,  who  had  no  other  merit  than  smelling  like  a;  livery- 
stables,  and  being  able  to  walk  across  me,  more  like  a 
fly  than  a  human  being,  while  the  horses  were  at  a 
canter !  ♦ 

A  distrust  of  myself,  which  has  often  beset  me  in  life  on 
small  occasions,  when  it  would  have  been  better  away,  was 
assuredly  not  stopped  in  its  growth  by  this  little  incident 
outside  the  Canterbury  coach.  It  was  in  vain  to  take  refuge 
in  gruffness  of  speech.  I  spoke  from  the  pit  of  my  stom- 
ach for  the  rest  of  the  journey,  but  I  felt  completely  extin- 
guished, and  dreadfully  young. 

It  was  curious  and  interesting,  nevertheless,  to  be  sitting 
up  there,  behind  four  horses:  well  educated,  well  dressed, 
and  with  plenty  of  money  in  my  pocket:  and  to  look  out 
-  for  the  places  where  I  had  slept  on  my  weary  journey.  I 
had  abundant  occupation  for  my  thoughts,  in  every  con- 
spicuous landmark  on  the  road.  When  I  looked  down  at 
the  trampers  whom  we  passed,  and  saw  that  well-remem- 
bered style  of  face  turned  up,  I  felt  as  if  the  tinker's  black- 
~  ened  hand  were  in  the  bosom  of  my  shirt  again.  When  we 
clattered  through  the  narrow  street  of  Chatham,  and  I 
caught  a  glimpse,  in  passing,  of  the  lane  where  the  old  mon- 
ster lived  who  had  bought  my  jacket,  I  stretched  my  neck 
eagerly  to  look  for  the  place  where  I  had  sat,  in  the  sun  and 
in  the  shade,  waiting  for  my  money.  When  we  came,  at 
last,  within  a  stage  of  London,  and  passed  the  veritable 
Salem  House  where  Mr.  Creakle  had  laid  about  him  with  a 
heavy  hand,  I  would  have  given  all  I  had,  for  lawful  per- 
mission to  get  down  and  thrash  him,  and  let  all  the  boys 
out  like  so  many  caged  sparrows. 

We  went  to  the  Golden  Cross  at  Charing  Cross,  then  a 


284  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

moldy  sort  of  establishment  in  a  close  neighborhood.  A 
waiter  showed  me  into  the  coffee-room;  and  a  chambermaid 
introduced  me  to  my  small  bedchamber,  which  smelt  like  a 
hackney-coach,  and  was  shut  up  like  a  family  vault.  I  was 
still  painfully  conscious  of  my  youth,  for  nobody  stood  in 
any  awe  of  me  at  all:  the  chambermaid  being  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  my  opinions  on  any  subject,  and  the  waiter  being 
familiar  with  me,  and  offering  advice  to  my  inexperience. 

"  Well  now,"  said  the  waiter,  in  a  tone  of  confidence, 
*'  what  would  you  like  for  dinner  ?  Young  gentlemen  likes 
poultry  in  general,  have  a  fowl !" 

I  told  him  as  majestically  as  I  could,  that  I  wasn't  in  the 
humor  for  a  fowl. 

"Ain't  you!"  said  the  waiter.  "Young  gentlemen  is  gen- 
erally tired  of  beef  and  mutton,  have  a  weal  cutlet!" 

I  assented  to  this  proposal,  in  default  of  being  able  to 
suggest  anything  else. 

"  Do  you  care  for  taters.'*"  said  the  waiter,  with  an  insinu- 
ating smile,  and  his  head  on  one  side.  "  Young  gentlemen 
generally  has  been  over-dosed  with  taters." 

I  commanded  him  in  deepest  voice,  to  order  a  veal  cutlet 
and  potatoes,  and  all  things  fitting;  and  to  inquire  at  the 
bar  if  there  were  any  letters  for  Trotwood  Copperfield,  Es- 
quire— which  I  knew  there  were  not,  and  couldn't  be,  but 
thought  it  manly  to  appear  to  expect. 

He  soon  came  back  to  say  that  there  were  none  (at  which 
I  was  much  surprised),  and  began  to  lay  the  cloth  for  my 
dinner  in  a  box  by  the  fire.  While  he  was  so  engaged  he 
asked  me  what  I  would  take  with  it;  and  on  my  replying 
"  Half  a  pint  of  sherry,"  thought  it  a  favorable  opportunity, 
I  am  afraid,  to  extract  that  measure  of  wine  from  the  stale 
leavings  at  the  bottoms  of  several  small  decanters.  I  am  of 
this  opinion,  because,  while  I  was  reading  the  newspaper  I 
observed  him  behind  a  low  wooden  partition,  which  was  his 
private  apartment,  very  busy  pouring  out  of  a  number  of 
those  vessels  into  one,  like  a  chemist  and  druggist  making 
up  a  prescription.  When  the  wine  came,  too,  I  thought  it 
flat;  and  it  certainly  had  more  English  crumbs  in  it,  than 
were  to  be  expected  in  a  foreign  wine  in  anything  like  a 
pure  state;  but  I  was  bashful  enough  to  drink  it,  and  say 
nothing. 

Being,  then,  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind  (from  which  I 
infer  that  poisoning  is  not  always  disagreeable  in  some  stages 
of  the  process),  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  play.     It  was  Covent 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  285 

Garden  Theatre  that  I  chose;  and  there,  from  the  back  of 
a  centre  box,  I  saw  Julius  Caesar  and  the  new  Pantomime. 
To  have  all  those  noble  Komans  alive  before  me,  and  walk- 
ing in  and  out  for  my  entertainment,  instead  of  being  the 
stern  taskmasters  they  had  been  at  school,  was  a  most  novel 
and  delightful  effect.  But  the  mingled  reality  and  mystery 
of  the  whole  show,  the  influence  upon  me  of  the  poetry,  the 
lights,  the  music,  the  company,  the  smooth  stupendous 
changes  of  glittering  and  brilliant  scenery,  were  so  dazzling, 
and  opened  up  such  illimitable  regions  of  delight,  that  when 
I  came  out  into  the  rainy  street,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  come  from  the  clouds,  where  I  had  been 
leading  a  romantic  life  for  ages,  to  a  bawling,  splashing, 
link-lighted,  umbrella-struggling,  hackney-coach-jostling, 
patten-clinking,  muddy,  miserable  world. 

I  had  emerged  by  another  door,  and  stood  in  the  street 
for  a  little  while,  as  if  I  really  were  a  stranger  upon  earth : 
•but  the  unceremonious  pushing  and  hustling  that  I  received, 
soon  recalled  me  to  myself,  and  put  me  in  the  road  back  to 
the  hotel:  whither  I  went,  revolving  the  glorious  vision  all 
the  way;  and  where,  after  some  porter  and  oysters,  I  sat  re- 
volving it  still,  at  past  one  o'clock,  with  my  eyes  on  the 
coffee-room  fire. 

I  was  so  filled  with  the  play,  and  with  the  past — for  it  was, 
in  a  manner,  like  a  shining  transparency,  through  which  1 
saw  my  earlier  life  moving  along — that  I  don't  know  when 
the  figure  of  a  handsome  well-formed  young  man,  dressed 
with  a  tasteful,  easy  negligence,  which  I  have  reason  to  re- 
member very  well,  became  a  real  presence  to  me.  But  I 
recollect  being  conscious  of  his  company  without  having 
noticed  his  coming  in — and  my  still  sitting,  musing,  over  the 
coffee-room  fire. 

At  last  I  rose  to  go  to  bed,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  sleepy 
waiter,  who  had  got  the  fidgets  in  his  legs,  and  was  twisting 
them,  and  hitting  them,  and  putting  them  through  all  kinds 
of  contortions  in  his  small  pantry.  In  going  towards  the 
door,  I  passed  the  person  who  had  come  in,  and  saw  him 
plainly.  I  turned  directly,  came  back,  and  looked  again. 
He  did  not  know  me,  but  I  knew  him  in  a  moment. 

At  another  time  I  might  have  wanted  the  confidence  or 
the  decision  to  speak  to  him,  and  might  have  put  it  off  until 
next  day,  and  might  have  lost  him.  But,  in  the  then  con- 
dition of  my  mind,  where  the  play  was  still  running  high,  his 


286  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

former  protection  of  me  appeared  so  deserving  of  my  grati- 
tude, and  my  old  love  for  him  overflowed  my  breast  so 
freshly  and  spontaneously,  that  I  went  up  to  him  at  once, 
with  a  fast-beating' heart,  and  said; 

"  Steerforth  !  won't  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

He  looked  at  me — just  as  he  used  to  look,  sometimes — but 
I  saw  no  recognition  in  his  face. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  I  am  afraid,"  said  I. 

"  My  God  !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  It's  littk  Copper- 
field  !" 

I  grasped  him  by  both  hands,  and  could  not  let  him  go. 
But  for  very  shame,  and  the  fear  that  I  might  displease  him, 
I  could  have  held  him  around  the  neck  and  cried. 

"  I  never,  never,  never  was  so  glad  !  My  dear  Steerforth, 
I  am  so  overjoyed  to  see  you  !" 

"  And  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you,  too  !"  he  said,  shaking 
my  hands  heartily.  "  Why,  Copperfield,  old  boy,  don't  be 
overpowered  ?"  And  yet  he  was  glad,  too,  I  thought,  to  see 
how  the  delight  I  had  in  meeting  him  affected  me. 

I  brushed  away  the  tears  that  my  utmost  resolution  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  back,  and  I  made  a  clumsy  laugh  of  it, 
and  we  sat  down  together,  side  by  side. 

"  Why,  how  do  you  come  to  be  here }"  said  Steerforth, 
clapping  me  on  the  shoulder. 

*'  I  came  here  by  the  Canterbury  coach,  to-day.  I  have 
been  adopted  by  an  aunt  down  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
and  have  just  finished  my  education  there.  How  do  j'^// 
come  to  be  here,  Steerforth  ?" 

"  Well,  I  am  what  they  call  an  Oxford  man,"  he  returned; 
"  that  is  to  say,  I  get  bored  to  death  down  there,  periodi- 
cally— and  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  my  mother's.  You're 
a  devilish  amiable-looking  fellow,  Copperfield.  Just  what 
you  used  to  be,  now  I  look  at  you  !  Not  altered  in  the 
least !" 

"I  knew  you  immediately,"  I  said;  "but  you  are  more 
easily  remembered." 

He  laughed  as  he  ran  his  hands  through  the  clustering 
curls  of  his  hair,  and  said  gaily: 

"  Yes,  I  am  on  an  expedition  of  duty.  My  movher  lives 
a  little  way  out  of  town;  and  the  roads  being  in  a  beastly 
condition,  and  our  house  tedious  enough,  I  remained  here 
to-night  instead  of  going  on.  I  have  not  been  in  town  half- 
a-dozen  hours,  and  those  I  have  been  dozing  and  grumb- 
ling away  at  the  play." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  287 

"  I  have  been  at  the  play,  too,"  said  I.  "  At  Covent 
Garden.  What  a  delightful  and  magnificent  entertainment, 
Steerforth!" 

Steerforth  laughed  heartily. 

— "  My  dear  young  Davy,"  he  said,  clapping  me  on  the 
shoulder  again  "  you  are  a  very  daisy.  The  daisy  of  the 
field,  at  sunrise,  is  not  fresher  than  you  are!  I  have  been 
at  Covent  Garden,  too,  and  there  never  was  a  more  miser- 
able business! — Holloa,  you,  sir!" 

This  was  addressed  to  the  waiter,  who  had  been  very  at- 
tentive to  our  recognition,  at  a  distance,  and  now  came  for- 
ward deferentially. 

"  Where  have  you  put  my  friend,  Mr.  Copperfield?"  said 
Steerforth. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?" 

"  Where  does  he  sleep  ?  What's  his  number  }  You  know 
what  I  mean,"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  with  an  apologetic  air.  "  Mr. 
Copperfield  is  at  present  in  forty-four,  sir.'" 

"And  what  the  devil  do  you  mean,"  retorted  Steerforth, 
"  by  putting  Mr.  Copperfield  into  a  little  loft  over  the 
stable  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  we  wasn't  aware,  sir,"  returned  the  waiter, 
still  apologetically,  "  as  Mr.  Copperfield  was  anyways  particu- 
lar. We  can  give  Mr.  Copperfield  seventy-two,  sir,  if  it 
would  be  preferred.     Next  you,  sir." 

"  Of  course  it  would  be  preferred,"  said  Steerforth.  "And 
do  it  at  once." 

The  waiter  immediately  withdrew  to  make  the  exchange. 
Steerforth,  very  much  amused  at  my  having  been  put  into 
forty-four,  laughed  again,  and  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder 
again,  and  invited  me  to  breakfast  with  him  next  morning 
at  ten  o'clock — an  invitation  I  was  only  too  proud  and  happy 
to  accept.  It  being  now  pretty  late,  we  took  our  candles 
and  went  up-stairs,  where  we  parted  with  friendly  heartiness 
at  his  door,  and  where  I  found  my  new  room  a  great  im- 
provement on  my  old  one,  it  not  being  at  all  musty,  and 
having  an  immense  four-post  bedstead  in  it,  which  was  quite 
a  little  landed  estate.  Here,  among  pillows  enough  for  six,  I 
soon  fell  asleep  in  a  blissful  condition,  and  dreamed  of  an- 
cient Rome,  Steerforth,  and  friendship,  until  the  early 
morning  coaches,  rumbling  out  of  the  archway  underneath, 
made  me  dream  of  thunder  and  the  god^s. 


288  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  XX. 
steerforth's    home. 

When  the  chambermaid  tapped  at  my  door  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  informed  me  that  my  shaving-water  was  out- 
side, I  felt  severely  the  having  no  occasion  for  it,  and 
blushed  in  my  bed.  The  suspicion  that  she  laughed  too, 
when  she  said  it,  preyed  upon  my  mind  all  the  time  I  was 
dressing;  and  gave  me,  I  was  conscious,  a  sneaking  and 
guilty  air  when  I  passed  her  on  the  staircase,  as  I  was 
going  down  to  breakfast.  I  was  so  sensitively  aware,  in- 
deed, of  being  younger  than  I  could  have  wished,  that 
for  some  time  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  pass  her 
at  all,  under  the  ignoble  circumstances  of  the  case  ;  but, 
hearing  her  there  with  a  broom,  stood  peeping  out  of 
window  at  King  Charles  on  horseback,  surrounded  by  a 
maze  of  hackney-coaches,  and  looking  anything  but  regal 
in  a  drizzling  rain  and  a  dark-brown  fog,  until  I  was 
admonished  by  the  waiter  that  the  gentleman  was  waiting 
for  me. 

It  was  not  in  the  coffee-room  that  I  found  Steerforth 
expecting  me,  but  in  a  snug  private  apartment,  red-cur- 
tained and  Turkey-carpeted,  where  the  fire  burnt  bright, 
and  a  fine  hot  breakfast  was  set  forth  on  a  table  covered 
with  a  clean  cloth;  and  a  cheerful  miniature  of  the  room, 
the  fire,  the  breakfast,  Steerforth,  and  all,  was  shining  in 
the  little  round  mirror  over  the  sideboard.  .  I  was  rather 
bashful  at  first,  Steerforth  being  so  self-possessed  and  ele- 
gant, and  superior  to  me  in  all  respects  (age  included); 
but  his  easy  patronage  soon  put  that  to  rights,  and  made 
me  quite  at  home.  I  could  not  enough  admire  the  change 
he  had  wrought  in  the  Golden  Cross;  or  compare  the  dull 
forlorn  state  I  had  held  yesterday,  with  this  morning  s 
comfort  and  this  morning's  entertainment.  As  to  the 
waiter's  familiarity,  it  was  quenched  as  if  it  had  never 
been.  He  attended  on  us,  as  I  may  say,  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes. 

"  Now,  Copperfield,"  said  Steerforth,  when  we  were  alone, 
"  I  should  like  to  hear  what  you  are  doing,  and  where  you 
are  going,  and  all  about  you,  I  feel  as  if  you  were  my 
property." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  289 

Glowing  with  pleasure  to  find  that  he  had  still  this  inter- 
est in  me,  I  told  him  how  my  aunt  had  proposed  the  little 
expedition  that  I  had  before  me,  and  whither  it  tended. 

"  As  you  are  in  no  hurry,  then,"  said  Steerforth,  "  come 
home  with  me  to  Highgate,  and  stay  a  day  or  two.  You 
will  be  pleased  with  my  mother — she  is  a  little  vain  and 
prosy  about  me,  but  that  you  can  forgive  her — and  she  will 
be  pleased  with  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  sure  of  that,  as  you  are  kind  enough 
to  say  you  are,"  I  answered,  smiling. 

"Oh!"  said  Steerforth,  **  every  one  who  likes  me  has  a 
claim  on  her  that  is  sure  to  be  acknowledged." 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  be  a  favorite,"  said  I. 

"  Good!"  said  Steerforth.  "  Come  and  prove  it.  We  will 
go  and  see  the  lions  for  an  hour  or  two — it's  something  to 
have  a  fresh  fellow  like  you  to  show  them  to,  Copperfield — 
and  then  we'll  journey  out  to  Highgate  by  the  coach." 

I  could  hardly  believe  but  that  I  was  in  a  dream,  and  that 
I  should  wake  presently  in  number  forty-four,  to  the  soli- 
tary box  in  the  cgffee-room  and  the  familiar  waiter  again. 
After  I  had  written  to  my  aunt,  and  told  her  of  my  fortun- 
ate meeting  with  my  admired  old  school-fellow,  and  my 
acceptance  of  his  invitation,  we  went  out.  in  a  hackney- 
chariot,  and  saw  a  panorama  and  some  other  sights,  and 
took  a  walk  through  the  Museum,  where  I  could  not  help 
observing  how  much  Steerforth  knew,  on  an  infinite  variety 
of  subjects,  and  of  how  little  account  he  seemed  to  make 
his  knowledge. 

"  You'll  take  a  high  degree  at  college,  Steerforth,"  said  I, 
"  if  you  have  not  done  so  already;  and  they  will  have  good 
reason  to  be  proud  of  you." 

"/  take  a  degree!"  cried  Steerforth.  "Not  I!  my  dear 
Daisy — will  you  mind  my  calling  you  Daisy  ?" 

"  Not  at  all !"  said  I. 

"  That's  a  good  fellow!  My  dear  Daisy,"  said  Steerforth, 
laughing,  "  I  have  not  the  least  desire  or  intention  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  in  that  way.  I  have  done  quite  sufficient 
for  my  purpose.  I  find  that  I  am  heavy  company  enough 
for  myself,  as  I  am." 

"  But  the  fame "  I  was  beginning. 

"You  romantic  Daisy!"  said  Steerforth,  laughing  still 
more  heartily;  "why  should  I  trouble  myself,  that  a  parcel 
of  heavy-headed  fellows  may  gape  and  hold  up  their  hands? 


250  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Let  them  do  it  at  some  other  man.  There  s  fame  for  him, 
and  he's  welcome  to  it." 

I  was  abashed  at  having  made  so  great  a  mistake,  and  was 
glad  to  change  the  subject.  Fortunately  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  do,  for  Steerforth  could  always  pass  from  one  sub- 
ject to  another  with  a  carelessness  and  lightness  that  were 
his  own. 

Lunch  succeeded  to  our  sight-seeing;  and  the  short  win- 
ter day  wore  away  so  fast,  that  it  was  dusk  when  the  stage- 
coach stopped  with  us  at  an  old  brick  house  at  Highgate  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill.  An  elderly  lady,  though  not  very 
far  advanced  in  years,  with  a  proud  carriage  and  a  hand- 
some face,  was  in  the  doorway  as  we  alighted;  and  greeting 
Steerforth  as  "  My  dearest  James,"  folded  him  in  her  arms. 
To  this  lady  he  presented  me  as  his  mother,  and  she  gave 
me  a  stately  welcome. 

It  was  a  genteel  old-fashioned  house,  very  quiet  and 
orderly.  From  the  windows  of  my  room  I  saw  all  London 
lying  in  the  distance  like  a  great  vapor,  with  here  and  there 
some  lights  twinkling  through  it.  I  had  only  time,  in  dress- 
ing, to  glance  at  the  solid  furniture,  ftie  framed  pieces  of 
work  (done,  I  supposed,  by  Steerforth's  mother  when  she 
was  a  girl),  and  some  pictures  in  crayons  of  ladies  with  pow- 
dered hair  and  bodices,  coming  and  going  on  the  walls,  as 
the  newly-kindled  fire  crackled  and  sputtered,  when  I  was 
called  to  dinner. 

There  was  a  second  lady  in  the  dining-room,  of  a  slight 
short  figure,  dark,  and  not  agreeable  to  look  at,  but  with 
some  appearance  of  good  looks  too,  who  attracted  my  atten- 
tion: perhaps  because  I  had  not  expected  to  see  her;  per- 
haps because  I  found  myself  sitting  opposite  to  her;  perhaps 
because  of  something  really  remarkable  in  her.  She  had 
black  hair  and  eager  black  eyes,  and  was  thin,  and  had  a 
scar  upon  her  lip.  It  was  an  old  scar — I  should  rather  call 
it  seam,  for  it  was  not  discolored,  and  had  healed  years  ago 
— which  had  once  cut  through  her  mouth,  downward  to- 
wards the  chin,  but  was  now  barely  visible  across  the  table, 
except  above  and  on  her  upper  lip,  the  shape  of  which  it 
had  altered.  I  concluded  in  my  own  mind  that  she  was 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  that  she  wished  to  be  mar- 
ried. She  was  a  little  dilapidated — like  a  house — with  hav- 
ing been  so  long  to  let;  yet  had,  as  I  have  said,  an  appear- 
ance of  good  looks.     Her  thinness  seemed  to  be  the  effect 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  291 

of  some  wasting  fire  within  her,  which  found  a  vent  in  her 
gaunt  eyes. 

She  was  introduced  as  Miss  Dartle,  and  both  Steerforth 
and  his  mother  called  her  Rosa.  I  found  that  she  lived 
there,  and  had  been  for  a  long  time  Mrs.  Steerforth's  com- 
panion. It  appeared  to  me  that  she  never  said  anything  she 
wanted  to  say,  outright;  but  hinted  it,  and  made  a  great 
deal  more  of  it  by  this  practice.  For  example,  when  Mrs. 
Steerforth  observed,  more  in  jest  than  earnest,  that  she 
feared  her  son  led  but  a  wild  life  at  college,  Miss  Dartle  put 
in  thus: 

"  Oh,  really?  You  know  how  ignorant  I  am,  and  that  I 
only  asked  for  information,  but  isn't  it  always  so?  I  thought 
that  kind  of  life  was  on  all  hands  understood  to  be — eh?" 

"  It  is  education  for  a  very  grave  profession,  if  you  mean 
that,  Rosa,"  Mrs.  Steerforth  answered  with  some  coldness. 

*'0h!  Yes!  That's  very  true,"  returned  Miss  Dartle.  "But 
isn't  it,  though? — I  want  to  be  put  right  if  I  am  wrong — isn't 
it  really?" 

"  Really  what?"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth. 

"Oh!  You  mean  it's  not  T  returned  Miss  Dartle.  "Well, 
I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it!  Now,  I  know  what  to  do.  That's 
the  advantage  of  asking.  I  shall  never  allow  people  to  talk 
before  me  about  wastefulness  and  profligacy,  and  so  forth, 
in  connection  with  that  life,  any  more." 

"And  you  will  be  right,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  "  My  son's 
tutor  is  a  conscientious  gentleman;  and  if  I  had  not  im- 
plicit reliance  on  my  son,  I  should  have  reliance  on  him." 

"  Should  you?"  said  Miss  Dartle.  "  Dear  me!  Conscien- 
tious is  he?     Really  conscientious,  now?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth. 

"  How  very  nice,"  exclaimed  Miss  Dartle.  "  What  a  com- 
fort! Really  conscientious?  Then  he's  not — but  of  course 
he  can't  be,  if  he's  really  conscientious.  Well,  I  shall  be 
quite  happy  in  my  opinion  of  him,  from  this  time.  You 
can't  think  how  it  elevates  him  in  my  opinion,  to  know  for 
certain  that  he's  really  conscientious!" 

Her  own  views  of  every  question,  and  her  correction  of 
everything  that  was  said  to  which  she  was  opposed,  Miss 
Dartle  insinuated  in  the  same  way;  sometimes  I  could  not  con- 
ceal from  myself,  with  great  power,  though  in  contradiction 
even  of  Steerforth.  An  instance  happened  before  dinner 
was  done.     Mrs.  Steerforth  speaking  to  me  about  my  inten- 


292  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

tion  of  going  down  into  Suffolk,  I  said  at  hazard  how  glad 
I  should  be,  if  Steerforth  would  only  go  therewith  me;  and 
explaining  to  him  that  I  was  going  to  see  my  old  nurse,  and 
Mr.  Peggotty's  family,  I  reminded  him  ot  the  boatman  whom 
he  had  seen  at  school. 

"  Oh  !  That  bluff  fellow  ?"  said  Steerforth.  "  He  had  a 
son  with  him,  hadn't  he  ?" 

"No,  That  was  his  nephew,"  I  replied;  "whom  he 
adopted  though,  as  a  son.  He  has  a  very  pretty  little  niece 
too,  whom  he  adopted  as  a  daughter.  In  short,  his  house 
(or  rather  his  boat,  for  he  lives  in  one,  on  dry  land)  is  full 
of  people  who  are  objects  of  his  generosity  and  kindness. 
You  would  be  delighted  to  see  that  household." 

"Should  I?"  said  Steerforth.  "Well,  I  think  I  should. 
I  must  see  what  can  be  done.  It  would  be  worth  a  journey 
— not  to  mention  the  pleasure  of  a  journey  with  you,  Daisy, 
— to  see  that  sort  of  people  together,  and  to  make  one  of  *em." 

My  heart  leaped  with  a  new  hope  of  pleasure.  But  it  was 
in  reference  to  the  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken  of  "  that 
sort  of  people,"  that  Miss  Dartle,  whose  sparkling  eyes  had 
been  ever  watchful  of  us  now  broke  in  again. 

"  Oh,  but,  really!  Do  tell  me.  Are  they,  though  ?"  said  she. 

"  Are  they  what  ?     And  are  who  what  ?"  said  Steerforth. 

"  That  sort  of  people — are  they  really  animals  and  clods, 
and  beings  of  another  order  ?     I  want  to  know  s(?  much." 

"  Why,  there's  a  pretty  wide  separation  between  them  and 
us,"  said  Steerforth,  with  indifference.  "  They  are  not  to  be 
expected  to  be  as  sensitive  as  we  are.  Their  delicacy  is  not 
to  be  shocked,  or  hurt  very  easily.  They  are  wonderfully 
virtuous,  I  dare  say — some  people  contend  for  that,  at  least; 
and  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  contradict  them — but  they 
have  not  very  fine  natures,  and  they  may  be  thankful  that, 
like  their  coarse,  rough  skins,  they  are  not  easily  wounded." 

"  Really,"  said  Miss  Dartle.  "  Well,  I  don't  know,  now, 
when  I  have  been  better  pleased  than  to  hear  that.  It's  so 
consoling!  It's  such  a  delight  to  know  that,  when  they  suffer, 
they  don't  feel !  Sometimes  I  have  been  quite  uneasy  for 
that  sort  of  people  ;  but  now  I  shall  just  dismiss  the  idea  of 
them,  altogether.  Live  and  learn.  I  had  my  doubts,  I  con- 
fess, but  now  they're  cleared  up.  I  didn't  know,  and  now  I 
do  know;  and  that  shows  the  advantage  of  asking — ■ 
don't  it?" 

I  believed  that  Steerforth  had  said  what  he  had,  in  jest, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  293 

or  to  draw  Miss  Dartle  out  ;  and  I  expected  him  to  say  as 
much  when  she  was  gone,  and  we  two  were  sitting  before  the 
fire.     But  he  merely  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  her. 

"  She  is  very  clever,  is  she  not  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Clever  !  She  brings  everything  to  a  grindstone,"  said 
Steerforth,  "  and  sharpens  it,  as  she  has  sharpened  her  own 
face  and  figure  these  years  past.  She  has  worn  herself  away 
by  constant  sharpening.     She  is  all  edge." 

"  What  a  remarkable  scar  that  is  upon  her  lip  !"  I  said. 

Steerforth's  face  fell,  and  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,"  he  returned,  " — /  did  that." 

"  By  an  unfortunate  accident  ?" 

"  No.  I  was  a  young  boy,  and  she  exasperated  me,  and 
I  threw  a  hammer  at  her.  A  promising  young  angel  I  must 
have  been." 

I  was  deeply  sorry  to  have  touched  on  such  a  painful  theme, 
but  that  was  useless  now. 

"She  has  borne  the  mark  ever  since  as  you  see;"  said 
Steerforth  ;  "  and  she'll  bear  it  to  her  grave,  if  she  ever  rests 
in  one — though  I  can  hardly  believe  that  she  will  ever  rest 
anywhere.  She  was  the  motherless  child  of  a  sort  of  a  cousin 
of  my  father's.  He  died  one  day.  My  mother,  who  was 
then  a  widow,  brought  her  here  to  be  company  to  her.  She 
has  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  of  her  own,  and  saves  the 
interest  of  it  every  year,  to  add  to  the  principal.  There's  the 
history  of  Miss  Rosa  Dartle  for  you." 

"  And  I  have  no  doubt  she  loves  you  like  a  brother,"  said  I. 

"  Humph  !"  retorted  Steerforth,  looking  at  the  fire. 
"  Some  brothers  are  not  loved  overmuch:  and  some  love — 
but  help  yourself,  Copperfield  !  We'll  drink  the  daisies  of 
the  field,  in  compliment  to  you;  and  the  lilies  of  the  valley 
that  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin,  in  compliment  to  me — • 
the  more  shame  for  me  !"  A  moody  smile  that  had  over- 
spread his  features  cleared  off  as  he  said  this  merrily,  and 
he  was  his  own  frank  winning  self  again. 

I  could  not  help  glancing  at  the  scar  with  a  painful  in- 
terest when  we  went  in  to  tea.  It  was  not  long  before  I 
observed  that  it  was  the  most  susceptible  part  of  her  face, 
and  that,  when  she  turned  pale,  that  mark  altered  first,  and 
became  a  dull,  lead-colored  streak,  lengthening  out  to  its 
full  extent,  like  a  mark  in  invisible  ink  brought  to  the  fire. 
There  was  a  little  altercation  between  her  and  Steerforth 
about  a  cast  of  the  dice  at  backgammon — when  I  thought 


294  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

her,  for  one  moment,  in  a  storm  of  rage;  and  then  I  saw  it 
start  forth  like  the  old  writing  on  the  wall. 

It  was  no  matter  of  wonder  to  me  to  find  Mrs.  Steerforth 
devoted  to  her  son.  She  seemed  to  be  able  to  speak  or 
think  about  nothing  else.  She  showed  me  his  picture  as  an 
infant,  in  a  locket,  with  some  of  his  baby-hair  in  it;  she 
showed  me  his  picture  as  he  had  been  when  I  first  knew  him; 
and  she  wore  at  her  breast  his  picture  as  he  was  now.  All 
the  letters  he  had  ever  written  to  her,  she  kept  in  a  cabinet 
near  her  own  chair  by  the  fire;  and  she  would  have  read  me 
some  of  them,  and  I  should  have  been  very  glad  to  hear 
them  too,  if  he  had  not  interposed,  and  coaxed  her  out  of 
the  design. 

"  It  was  at  Mr.  Creakle's,  my  son  tells  me,  that  you  first 
became  acquainted,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  as  she  and  I  were 
talking  at  one  table,  while  they  played  backgammon  at  an- 
other. "  Indeed,  I  recollect  his  speaking,  at  that  time,  of  a 
pupil  younger  than  himself,  who  had  taken  his  fancy  there; 
but  your  name,  as  you  may  suppose,  has  not  lived  in  my 
memory." 

*'  He  was  very  generous  and  noble  to  me  in  those  days,  I 
assure  you,  ma'am,"  said  I,  "  and  I  stood  in  need  of  such  a 
friend.     I  should  have  been  quite  crushed  without  him." 

"  He  is  always  generous  and  noble,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth, 
proudly. 

I  subscribed  to  this  with  all  my  heart,  God  knows.  She 
knew  I  did;  for  the  stateliness  of  her  manner  already  abated 
towards  me,  except  when  she  spoke  in  praise  of  him,  and 
then  her  air  was  always  lofty. 

"  It  was  not  a  fit  school  generally  for  my  son,"  said  she; 
*''  far  from  it;  but  there  were  particular  circumstances  to  be 
considered  at  the  time,  of  more  importance  even  than  that 
selection.  My  son's  high  spirit  made  it  desirable  that  he 
should  be  placed  with  some  man  who  felt  its  superiority, 
and  Avould  be  content  to  bow  himself  before  it;  and  we  found 
such  a  man  there." 

I  knew  that,  knowing  the  fellow.  And  yet  I  did  not  de- 
spise him  the  more  for  it,  but  thought  it  a  redeeming  quality 
in  him — if  he  could  be  allowed  any  grace  for  not  resisting 
one  so  irresistible  as  Steerforth. 

"  My  son's  great  capacity  was  tempted  on,  there,  by  a 
feeling  of  voluntary  emulation  and  conscious  pride,"  the 
fond  lady  went  on  to  say.     "  He  would  have  risen  against  all 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


295 


constraint;  but  he  found  himself  the  monarch  of  the  place, 
and  he  haughtily  determined  to  be  worthy  of  his  station. 
It  was  like  himself." 

I  echoed  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  that  it  was  like  himself. 

"  So  my  son  took,  of  his  own  will,  and  on  no  compulsion, 
to  the  course  in  which  he  can  always,  when  it  is  his  pleasure, 
outstrip  every  competitor,"  she  pursued.  "  My  son  informs 
me,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  you  were  quite  devoted  to  him, 
and  that  when  you  met  yesterday  you  made  yourself  known 
to  him  with  tears  of  joy.  I  should  be  an  affected  woman  if 
I  made  any  pretense  of  being  surprised  by  my  son's  inspir- 
ing such  emotions;  but  I  cannot  be  indifferent  to  any  one 
who  is  so  sensible  of  his  merit,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  here,  and  can  assure  you  that  he  feels  an  unusual  friend- 
ship for  you,  and  that  you  may  rely  on  his  protection." 

Miss  Dartle  played  backgammon  as  eagerly  as  she  did 
everything  else.  If  I  had  seen  her,  first,  at  the  board,  I 
should  have  fancied  that  her  figure  had  got  thin,  and  her 
eyes  had  got  large,  over  that  pursuit,  and  no  other  in  the 
world.  But  I  am  very  much  mistaken  if  she  missed  a  word 
of  this,  or  lost  a  look  of  mine  as  I  received  it  with  the  ut- 
most pleasure,  and  honored  by  Mrs.  Steerforth's  confidence, 
felt  older  than  I  had  done  since  I  left  Canterbury. 

When  the  evening  was  pretty  far  spent,  and  a  tray  of 
glasses  and  decanters  came  in,  Steerforth  promised,  over  the 
fire,  that  he  would  seriously  think  of  going  down  into  the 
country  with  me.  There  was  no  hurry,  he  said;  a  week 
hence  would  do;  and  his  mother  hospitably  said  the  same. 
While  we  were  talking,  he  more  than  once  called  me  Daisy; 
which  brought  Miss  Dartle  out  again. 

"But  really,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  she  asked,  "is  it  a  nick- 
name? And  why  does  he  give  it  you?  Is  it — eh?—  because 
he  thinks  you  young  and  innocent?  I  am  so  stupid  in  these 
things." 

I  colored  in  replying  that  I  believed  it  was. 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Dartle.  "  Now  I  am  glad  to  know  that! 
I  ask  for  information,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  it.  He  thinks 
you  young  and  innocent;  and  so  you  are  his  friend.  Well, 
that's  quite  delightful!" 

She  went  to  bed  soon  after  this,  and  Mrs.  Steerforth  re- 
tired too.  Steerforth  and  I,  after  lingering  for  half  an  hour 
over  the  fire,  talking  about  Traddles  and  all  the  rest  of  them 
at  old  Salem  House,  went  up-stairs  together.     Steerforth's 


296  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

room  was  next  to  mine,  and  I  went  in  to  look  at  it.  It  was 
a  picture  of  comfort,  full  of  easy  chairs,  cushions  and  foot- 
stools, worked  by  his  mother's  hand,  and  with  no  sort  of 
thing  omitted  that  could  help  to  render  it  complete.  Finally, 
hei  handsome  features  looked  down  on  her  darling  from  a 
portrait  on  the  wall,  as  if  it  were  even  something  to  her 
that  her  likeness  should  watch  him  while  he  slept. 

I  found  the  fire  burning  clear  enough  in  my  room  by  this 
time,  and  the  curtains  drawn  before  the  windows  and  round 
the  bed,  giving  it  a  very  snug  appearance.  I  sat  down  in  a 
great  chair  upon  the  hearth  to  meditate  on  my  happiness; 
and  had  enjoyed  the  contemplation  of  it  for  some  time, 
when  I  found  a  likeness  of  Miss  Dartle  looking  eagerly  at 
me  from  above  the  chimney-piece. 

It  was  a  startling  likeness,  and  necessarily  had  a  startling 
look.  The  painter  hadn't  made  the  scar,  but  /made  it; 
and  there  it  was,  coming  and  going;  now  confined  to  the 
upper  lip  as  I  had  seen  it  at  dinner,  and  now  showing  the 
whole  extent  of  the  wound  inflicted  by  the  hammer,  as  I 
had  seen  it  when  she  was  passionate. 

I  wondered  peevishly  why  they  couldn't  put  her  anywhere 
else  instead  of  quartering  her  on  me.  To  get  rid  of  her,  I 
undressed  quickly,  extinguished  my  light,  and  went  to  bed. 
But,  as  I  feir  asleep,  I  could  not  forget  that  she  was  still 
there  looking,  "Is  it  really,  though?  I  want  to  know;"  and 
when  I  awoke  in  the  night,  I  found  that  I  was  uneasily  ask- 
ing all  sorts  of  people  in  my  dreams  whether  it  really  was 
or  not — without  knowing  what  I  meant 


CHAPTER   XXL 

LITTLE    EM'lY. 

There  was  a  servant  in  that  house,  a  man  who,  I  under- 
stood, was  usually  with  Steerforth,  and  had  come  into  his 
service  at  the  University,  who  was  in  appearance  a  pattern 
of  respectability.  I  believe  there  never  existed  in  his  sta- 
tion a  more  respectable-looking  man.  He  was  taciturn, 
soft-footed,  very  quiet  in  his  manner,  deferential,  observant, 
always  at  hand  when  wanted,  and  never  near  when  not 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  297 

wanted;  but  his  great  claim  to  consideration  was  his  respect- 
ability. He  had  not  a  pliant  face,  he  had  rather  a  stiff  neck, 
rather  a  tight  smooth  head  with  short  hair  clinging  to  it  at 
the  sides,  a  soft  way  of  speaking,  with  a  peculiar  habit  of 
whispering  the  letter  S  so  distinctly,  that  he  seemed  to  use 
it  oftener  than  any  other  man;  but  every  pecuHarity  that  he 
had  he  made  respectable.  If  his  nose  had  been  upside-down, 
he  would  have  made  that  respectable.  He  surrounded  him- 
self with  an  atmosphere  of  respectability,  and  walked  secure 
in  it.  It  would  have  been  next  to  impossible  to  suspect  him 
of  anything  wrong,  he  was  so  thoroughly  respectable.  No- 
body could  have  thought  of  putting  him  in  a  livery,  he  was 
so  highly  respectable.  To  have  imposed  any  derogatory 
work  upon  him,  would  have  been  to  inflict  a  wanton  insult 
on  the  feelings  of  a  most  respectable  man.  And  of  this,  I 
noticed  the  wom.en-servants  in  the  household  were  so  intui- 
tively conscious,  that  they  always  did  such  work  themselves, 
and  generally  while  he  read  the  paper  by  the  pantry  fire. 

Such  a  self-contained  man  I  never  saw.  But  in  that  quality, 
as  in  every  other  he  possessed,  he  only  seemed  to  be  the 
more  respectable.  Even  the  fact  that  no  one  knew  his 
Christian  name,  seemed  to  form  a  part  of  his  respectability. 
Nothing  could  be  objected  against  his  surname  Littimer,  by 
which  he  was  known.  Peter  might  have  been  hanged,  or 
Tom  transported  ;  but  Littimer  was  perfectly  respectable. 

It  was  occasioned,  I  suppose,  by  the  reverend  nature  of 
respectability  in  the  abstract,  but  I  felt  particularly  young 
in  this  man's  presence.  How  old  he  was  himself  I  could  not 
guess — and  that  again  went  to  his  credit  on  the  same  score  ; 
for  in  the  calmness-  of  respectability  he  might  ha/e  num- 
bered fifty  years  as  well  as  thirty. 

Littimer  was  in  my  room  in  the  morning  before  I  was  up, 
to  bring  me  that  reproachful  shaving-water,  and  to  put  out 
my  clothes.  When  I  undrew  the  curtains  and  looked  out 
of  bed,  I  saw  him,  in  an  equable  temperature  of  respect- 
ability, unaffected  by  the  east  wind  of  January,  and  not 
even  breathing  frostily,  standing  my  boots  right  and  left  in 
the  first  dancing  position,  and  blowing  specks  of  dust  off 
my  coat  as  he  laid  it  down  like  a  baby. 

I  gave  him  good  morning,  and  asked  him  what  o'clock  it 
was.  He  took  out  of  his  pocket  the  most  respectable  hunt- 
ing-watch I  ever  saw,  and  preventing  the  spring  with  his 
thumb  from  opening  far,  looked  in  at  the  face,  as  if  he  were 
consulting  an  oracular  oyster,  shut  it  up  again,  and  said,  il 
I  pleased,  it  was  half-pa_st  ei^h^ 


298  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Mr.  Steerforth  will  be  glad  to  hear  how  you  have  rested, 
sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I,  "  very  well  indeed.  Is  Mr.  Steer- 
forth  quite  well?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  Mr.  Steerforth  is  tolerably  well."  An- 
other of  his  characteristics, — no  use  of  superlatives.  A 
cool  calm  medium  always. 

*'  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  have  the  honor  of  doing 
for  you,  sir?  The  warning-bell  will  ring  at  nine;  the  family 
take  breakfast  at  half-past  nine." 

"Nothing,  I  thank  you." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  if  you  please;'*  and  with  that,  and  with 
a  little  inclination  of  his  head  when  he  passed  the  bedside, 
as  an  apology  for  correcting  me,  he  went  out,  shutting  the 
door  as  delicately  as  if  I  had  just  fallen  into  a  sweet  sleep 
on  which  my  life  depended. 

Every  morning  we  had  exactly  this  conversation;  never 
any  more,  and  never  any  less;  and  yet,  invariably,  however 
far  I  might  have  been  lifted  out  of  myself  over-night,  and 
advanced  towards  maturer  years,  by  Steerforth's  compan- 
ionship, or  Mrs.  Steerforth's  confidence,  or  Miss  Dartle's 
conversation,  in  the  presence  of  this  most  respectable  man  I 
became,  as  our  smaller  poets  sing,  "  a  boy  again." 

He  got  horses  for  us;  and  Steerforth,  who  knew  every 
thing,  gave  me  lessons  in  riding.  He  provided  foils  for  us,^ 
and  Steerforth  gave  me  lessons  in  fencing — gloves,  and  I 
began,  of  the  same  master,  to  improve  in  boxing.  It  gave 
me  no  manner  of  concern  that  Steerforth  should  find  me  a 
novice  in  these  sciences,  but  I  never  could  bear  to  show  my 
want  of  skill  before  the  respectable  Littimer.  I  had  no 
reason  to  believe  that  Littimer  understood  such  arts  him- 
self; he  never  led  me  to  suppose  anything  of  the  kind,  by  so 
much  as  the  vibration  of  one  of  his  respectable  eyelashes; 
yet  whenever  he  was  by,  while  we  were  practicing,  I  felt 
myself  the  greenest  and  most  inexperienced  of  mortals. 

I  am  particular  about  this  man,  because  he  made  a  par- 
ticular effect  on  me  at  that  time,  and  because  of  what  took 
place  thereafter. 

The  week  passed  away  in  a  most  delightful  manner.  It 
passed  rapidly,  as  may  be  supposed,  to  one  entranced  as  I 
was,  and  yet  it  gave  me  so  many  occasions  for  knowing 
Steerforth  better,  and  admiring  him  more  in  a  thousand  re- 
spects, that  at  its  close  I  seemed  to  have  been  with  him  for 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  299     - 

a  much  longer  time.  A  dashing  way  he  had  of  treating  me 
like  a  play-thing,  was  more  agreeable  to  me  than  any  be^ 
havior  he  could  have  adopted.  It  reminded  me  of  our  olq 
acquaintance;  it  seemed  the  natural  sequel  to  it;  it  showed 
me  that  he  was  unchanged;  it  relieved  me  of  any  uneasiness 
I  might  have  felt,  in  comparing  my  merits  with  his,  and 
measuring  my  claims  upon  his  friendship  by  any  equal 
standard;  above  all,  it  was  a  familiar,  unrestrained,  affection- 
ate demeanor,  that  he  used  towards  no  one  else.  As  he  had 
treated  me  at  school  differently  from  all  the  rest,  I  joyfully 
believed  that  he  treated  me  in  life  unlike  any  other  friend 
he  had.  I  believed  that  I  was  nearer  to  his  heart  than  any 
other  friend,  and  my  own  heart  warmed  with  attachment  to 
him. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  with  me  into  the  country,  and 
the  day  arrived  for  our  departure.  He  had  been  doubtful 
at  first  whether  to  take  Littimer  or  not,  but  decided  to  leave 
him  at  home.  The  respectable  creature,  satisfied  with  his 
lot  whatever  it  was,  arranged  our  portmanteaus  on  the  little 
carriage  that  was  to  take  us  into  London,  as  if  they  were  in- 
tended to  defy  the  shocks  of  ages;  and  received  my  mod- 
estly proffered  donation  with  perfect  tranquilHty. 

We  bade  adieu  to  Mrs.  Steerforth  and  Miss  Dartle,  with 
many  thanks  on  my  part,  and  much  kindness  on  the  devoted 
mother's.  The  last  thing  I  saw  was  Littimer's  unruffled 
eye;  fraught,  as  I  fancied,  with  the  silent  conviction  that  I 
was  very  young  indeed. 

What  I  felt,  in  returning  so  auspiciously  to  the  old  fami- 
liar places,  I  shall  not  endeavor  to  describe.  We  went  down 
by  the  mail.  I  was  so  concerned,  I  recollect,  even  for  the 
honor  of  Yarmouth,  that,  when  Steerforth  said,  as  we  drove 
through  its  dark  streets  to  the  inn,  that,  as  well  as  he  could 
make  out,  it  was  a  good,  queer,  out-of-the-way  kind  of  hole, 
I  was  highly  pleased.  We  v/ent  to  bed  on  our  arrival  (I 
observed  a  pair  of  dirty  shoes  and  gaiters  in  connexion  with 
my  old  friend  the  Dolphin  as  we  passed  that  door),  and 
breakfasted  late  in  the  morning.  Steerforth,  who  was  in 
great  spirits,  had  been  strolling  about  the  beach  before  I 
was  up,  and  had  made  acquaintance,  he  said,  with  half  the 
boatmen  in  the  place.  Moreover  he  had  seen,  in  the  dis- 
tance, what  he  was  sure  must  be  the  identical  house  of  Mr, 
Peggotty,  with  smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney;  and  had 
had  a  great  mind,  he  told  me,  to  walk  in  and  swear  he  was 
myself  grown  out  of  knowledge. 


300  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  When  do  you  propose  to  introduce  me  there,  Daisy?" 
he  said.  "  I  am  at  your  disposal.  Make  your  own  arrange- 
ments." 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking  that  this  evening  would  be  a  good 
time,  Steerforth,  when  they  are  all  sitting  round  the  fire.  I 
should  like  you  to  see  it  when  it's  snug,  it's  such  a  curious 
place." 

"  So  be  it!"  returned  Steerforth.     "This  evening." 

"  I  shall  not  give  them  any  notice  that  we  are  here,  you 
know,"  said  I,  delighted.     "  We  must  take  them  by  surprise." 

"  Oh,  of  course!  It's  no  fun,"  said  Steerforth,  "  unless 
we  take  them  by  surprise.  Let  us  see  the  natives  in  their 
aboriginal  condition." 

"  Though  they  are  that  sort  of  people  that  you  men- 
tioned," I  returned. 

"Aha!  What!  you  recollect  my  skirmishes  with  Rosa,  do 
you  ?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  quick  look.  "  Confound  the 
girl!  I  am  half  afraid  of  her.  She's  like  a  goblin  to  me. 
But  never  mind  her.  Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  }  You 
are  going  to  see  your  nurse,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said;  "  I  must  see  Peggotty  first  of  all." 

"  Well,"  replied  Steerforth,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Sup- 
pose I  deliver  you  up  to  be  cried  over  for  a  couple  of 
hours  ?     Is  that  long  enough  ?" 

I  answered,  laughing,  that  I  thought  we  might  get  through 
it  in  that  time,  but  that  he  must  come  also;  for  he  would 
find  that  his  renown  had  preceded  him,  and  that  he  was 
almost  as  great  a  personage  as  I  was. 

"  I'll  come  anywhere  you  like,"  said  Steerforth,  "  or  do 
anything  you  like.  Tell  me  where  to  come  to;  and  in  two 
hours  I'll  produce  myself  in  any  state  you  please,  sentimen- 
tal or  comical." 

I  gave  him  minute  directions  for  finding  the  residence  of 
Mr.  Barkis,  carrier  to  Blunderstone  and  elsewhere,  and,  on 
this  understanding,  went  out  alone.  There  was  a  sharp, 
bracing  air;  the  ground  was  dry;  the  sea  was  crisp  and  clear; 
the  sun  was  diffusing  abundance  of  light,  if  not  much 
warmth;  and  everything  was  fresh  and  lively.  I  was  so 
fresh  and  lively  myself,  in  the  pleasure  of  being  there,  that 
I  could  have  stopped  the  people  in  the  streets  and  shaken 
hands  with  them. 

The  streets  looked  small,  of  course.  The  streets  that  we 
have  only  seen  as  children,  always  do.  I  believe,  when  we 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  301 

go  back  to  them.  But  I  had  forgotten  nothing  in  them,  and 
found  nothing  changed,  until  I  came  to  Mr.  Omer's  shop. 
Omer  and  Joram  was  now  written  up,  where  Omer  used  to 
be;  but  the  inscription,  Draper,  Tailor,  Haberdasher, 
Funeral  Furnisher,  &c.,  remained  as  it  was. 

My  footsteps  seemed  to  tend  so  naturally  to  the  shop 
door,  after  I  had  read  these  words  from  over  the  way,  that 
I  went  across  the  road  and  looked  in.  There  was  a  pretty 
woman  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  dancing  a  little  child  in  her 
arms,  while  another  little  fellow  clung  to  her  apron.  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  recognizing  either  Minnie  or  Minnie's  chil- 
dren. The  glass  door  of  the  parlor  was  not  open;  but  in  the 
workshop  across  the  yard  I  could  faintly  hear  the  old  tune 
playing,  as  if  it  had  never  left  off. 

"  Is  Mr.  Omer  at  home  ?"  said  I,  entering.  "  I  should 
like  to  see  him,  for  a  moment,  if  he  is." 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  he  is  at  home,"  said  Minnie;  "this  weather 
don't  suit  his  asthma  out  of  doors.  Joe,  call  your  grand- 
father !" 

The  little  fellow,  who  was  holding  her  apron,  gave  such  a 
lusty  shout,  that  the  sound  of  it  made  him  bashful,  and  he 
buried  his  face  in  her  skirts,  to  her  great  admiration.  I 
heard  a  heavy  puffing  and  blowing  coming  towards  us,  and 
soon  Mr,  Omer,  shorter-winded  than  of  yore,  but  not  much 
older-looking,  stood  before  me. 

"  Servant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "What  can  I  do  for  you, 
sir  ?" 

"  You  can  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Omer,  if  you  please," 
said  I,  putting  out  my  own.  "  You  were  very  good-natured 
to  me  once,  when  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  show  that  I  thought  so." 

"  Was  I  though  ?"  returned  the  old  man.  "  I'm  glad  to 
hear  it,  but  I  don't  remember  when.    Are  you  sure  it  was  me?" 

"  Quite." 

"  I  think  my  memory  has  got  as  short  as  my  breath,"  said 
Mr.  Omer,  looking  at  me  and  shaking  his  head;  "  for  I  don't 
remember  you." 

"  Don't  you  remember  your  coming  to  the  coach  to  meet 
me,  and  my  having  breakfast  here,  and  our  riding  out  to  Blun- 
derstone  together:  you,  and  I,  and  Mrs.  Joram,  and  Mr. 
Joram,  too — who  wasn't  her  husband  then  ?" 

"  Why,  Lord  bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Omer,  after 
being  thrown  by  his  surprise  into  a  fit  of  coughing,  "  you 
don't  say  so  !  Minnie,  my  dear,  you  recollect  ?  Pear  me, 
yes — the  party  was  a  lady,  I  think  ?" 


302  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  My  mother,"  I  rejoined. 

"  To — be — sure,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  touching  rny  waistcoat 
with  his  forefinger,  "  and  there  was  a  httle  child  too  !  There 
was  two  parties.  The  Httle  party  was  laid  along  with  the 
other  party.  Over  at  Blunderstone  it  was,  of  course.  Dear 
me  !     And  how  have  you  been  since  ?" 

Very  well,  I  thanked  him,  as  I  hoped  he  had  been  too. 

"  Oh  !  nothing  to  grumble  at,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Omer. 
"  I  find  my  breath  gets  short,  but  it  seldom  gets  longer  as  a 
man  gets  older.  I  take  it  as  it  comes,  and  make  the  most 
of  it.     That's  the  best  way,  ain't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Omer  coughed  again,  in  consequence  of  laughing,  and 
was  assisted  out  of  his  fit  by  his  daughter,  who  now  stood 
close  beside  us,  dancing  her  smallest  child  on  the  counter. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Two 
parties.  Why,  in  that  very  ride,  if  you'll  believe  me,  the 
day  was  named  for  my  Minnie  to  marry  Joram.  *  Do  name 
it,  sir,'  says  Joram.  *  Yes,  do,  father,'  said  Minnie,  And 
now  he's  come  into  the  business.  And.  look  here  !  The 
youngest !"  ^  • 

Minnie  laughed,  and  stroked  her  banded  hair  upon  her 
temples,  as  her  father  put  one  of  his  fat  fingers  into  the  hand 
of  the  child  she  was  dancing  on  the  counter. 

"  Two  parties,  of  course  !"  said  Mr.  Omer,  nodding  his 
head  retrospectively.  "  Ex-actly  so  !  And  Joram's  at  work, 
at  this  minute,  on  a  grey  one  with  silver  nails,  not  this 
measurement  " — the  measurement  of  the  dancing  child  up- 
on the  counter — by  a  good  two  inches. — Will  you  take  some- 
thing ?" 

I  thanked  him,  but  declined. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Barkis's  the  carrier's 
wife — Peggotty's  the  boatman's  sister — she  had  something 
to  do  with  your  family  ?     She  was  in  service  there,  sure  ?" 

My  answering  in  the  affirmative  gave  him  great  satisfaction. 

"  I  believe  my  breath  will  get  long  next,  my  memory's 
getting  so  much  so,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "Well,  sir,  we've  got 
a  young  relation  of  hers  here  under  articles  to  us,  that  has 
as  elegant  a  taste  in  the  dress-making  business — I  assure 
you  I  don't  believe  there's  a  Duchess  in  England  can  touch 
her." 

"  Not  little  Em'ly  ?"  said  I,  involuntarily. 

"  Em'ly's  her  name,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  and  she's  little  too. 
But  if  you  believe  me,  she  has  such  a  face  of  her  own.  that 
half  the  "vvQwen  in  this  town  are  mad  against  her." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  303 

'*  Nonsense,  father  !**  cried  Minnie. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  I  don't  say  it's  the  case 
with  you,"  winking  at  me,  *'  but  I  say  that  half  the  women 
in  Yarmouth — ah  !  and  in  five  miles  round — -are  mad  against 
that  girl." 

*•  Then  she  should  have  kept  to  her  own  station  in  life, 
father,"  said  Minnie,  *'  and  not  have  given  them  any  hold 
to  talk  about  her  and  then  they  couldn't  have  done  it." 

*'  Couldn't  have  done  it,  my  dear  !"  retorted  Mr.  Omer. 
"  Couldn't  have  done  it  ?  Is  that  your  knowledge  of  life  ? 
What  is  there  that  any  woman  couldn't  do,  that  she  shouldn't 
do-especially  on  the  subject  of  another  woman's  good  looks?" 

I  really  thought  it  was  all  over  with  Mr.  Omer,  after 
he  had  uttered  this  libelous  pleasantry.  He  coughed  to 
that  extent,  and  his  breath  eluded  all  his  attempts  to  recover  it 
with  that  obstinacy,  that  I  fully  expected  to  see  his  head  go 
down  behind  the  counter,  and  his  little  black  breeches,  with 
the  rusty  little  bunch  of  ribbons  at  the  knees,  come  quiver- 
ing up  in  a  last  ineffectual  struggle.  At  length,  however, 
he  got  better,  though  he  still  panted  hard,  and  was  so  exhaust- 
ed that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  on  the  stool  of  the  shop-desk. 

'*  You  see,"  he  said,  wiping  his  head,  and  breathing  with 
difficulty,  ''  she  hasn't  taken  much  to  any  companions  here; 
she  hasn't  taken  kindly  to  any  particular  acquaintances  and 
friends,  not  to  mention  sweethearts.  In  consequence,  an 
ill-natured  story  got  about,  that  Em'ly  wanted  to  be  a  lady. 
Now  my  opinion  is,  that  it  came  into  circulation  principally 
on  account  of  her  sometimes  saying,  at  the  school,  that  if 
she  was  a  lady  she  would  like  to  do  so  and  so  for  her  uncle — 
don't  you  see  ? — and  buy  him  such  and  such  fine  things." 

"  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Omer,  she  has  said  so  to  me,"  I  returned 
eagerly,  "  when  we  were  both  children." 

Mr.  Omer  nodded  his  head  and  rubbed  his  chin.  "  Just 
so.  Then  out  of  a  very  little,  she  could  dress  herself,  you 
see,  better  than  most  others  could  out  of  a  deal,  and  that 
made  things  unpleasant.  Moreover,  she  was  rather  what 
might  be  called  wayward  — I'll  go  so  far  as  to  say  what  I 
should  call  wayward  myself,"  said  Mr.  Omer, — "  didn't 
know  her  own  mind  quite — a  little  spoiled—and  couldn't 
at  first,  exactly  bind  herself  down.  No  more  than  that  was 
ever  said  against  her,  Minnie  !" 

"  No,  father,"  said  Mrs  Joranit  "  That's  the  worst,  I 
believe.** 


304  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

*'  So  when  she  got  a  situation,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  to  keep 
a  fractious  old  lady  company,  they  didn  :  very  well  agree, 
and  she  didn't  stop.  At  last  she  came  here,  apprenticed  for 
three  years.  Nearly  two  of  'em  are  over,  and  she  has  been 
as  good  a  girl  as  ever  was.  Worth  any  six  !  Minnie,  is  she 
worth  any  six,  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  replied  Minnie.  "  Never  say  /  detracted 
from  her  !" 

"  Very  good,"  said  Mr  Omer.  "  That's  right.  And  so, 
young  gentleman,"  he  added,  after  a  few  moments'  further 
rubbing  of  his  chin,  "  that  you  may  not  consider  me  long- 
winded  as  well  as  short-breathed,  I  believe  that's  all  about  it" 

As  they  had  spoken  in  a  subdued  tone,  while  speaking 
of  Em'ly,  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  was  near.  On  my  asking 
now,  if  that  were  not  so,  Mr.  Omer  nodded  yes,  and  nodded 
towards  the  door  of  the  parlor.  My  hurried  inquiry  if  I 
might  peep  in,  was  answered  with  a  free  permission;  and, 
looking  through  the  glass,  I  saw  her  sitting  at  her  work.  I 
saw  her,  a  most  beautiful  little  creature,  with  the  cloudless 
blue  eyes,  that  had  looked  into  my  childish  heart,  turned 
laughingly  upon  another  child  of  Minnie's  who  was  playing 
near  her;  with  enough  of  wilfulness  in  her  bright  face  to 
justify  what  I  had  heard;  with  much  of  the  old  capricious 
coyness  lurking  in  it;  but  with  nothing  in  her  pretty  looks, 
I  am  sure,  but  what  was  meant  for  goodness  and  for  happiness, 
and  what  was  on  a  good  and  happy  course. 

The  tune  across  the  yard  that  seemed  as  if  it  never  had 
left  off — alas  !  it  was  the  tune  that  never  does  leave  off — 
was  beating,  softly,  all  the  while. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  step  in,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  and 
speak  to  her  !  Walk  in  and  speak  to  her,  sir  !  Make  your- 
self at  home  !" 

I  was  too  bashful  to  do  so  then — I  was  afraid  of  confus- 
ing her,  and  I  was  no  less  afraid  of  confusing  myself:  but 
I  informed  myself  of  the  hour  at  which  she  left  of  an  evening, 
in  order  that  our  visit  might  be  timed  accordingly;  and 
taking  leave  of  Mr.  Omer,  and  his  pretty  daughter,  and  her 
little  children,  went  away  to  my  dear  old  Peggotty's. 

Here  she  was,  in  the  tiled  kitchen,  cooking  dinner  !  The 
moment  I  knocked  at  the  door  she  opened  it,  and  asked  me 
what  I  pleased  to  want.  I  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  but 
she  gave  me  no  smile  in  return.  I  had  never  ceased  to 
write  to  her,  but  it  must  have  been  seven  years  since  we 
bad  ipet. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  305 

"  Is  Mr.  Barkis  at  home,  ma'am  ?"  I  said,  feigning  to 
speak  roughly  to  her, 

"  He's  at  home,  sir,"  returned  Peggotty,  "  but  he's  bad 
abed  with  the  rheumatics." 

"  Don't  he  go  over  to  Blunderstone  now?"  I  asked. 

"  When  he's  well,  he  do,"  she  answered. 

'*  Do  you  ever  go  there,  Mrs.  Barkis  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  more  attentively,  and  I  noticed  a  quick 
movement  of  her  hands  towards  each  other. 

"  Because  I  want  to  ask  a  question  about  a  house  there, 
that  they  call  the — what  is  it  ? — the  Rookery,"  said  I. 

She  took  a  step  backwards,  and  put  out  her  hands  in  an 
undecided  frightened  way,  as  if  to  keep  me  off. 

*'  Peggotty  !"  I  cried  to  her. 

She  cried,  "  My  darling  boy  !"  and  we  both  burst  into 
tears,  and  were  locked  in  one  another's  arms. 

What  extravagances  she  committed;  what  laughing  and 
crying  over  me;  what  pride  she  showed,  what  joy,  what  sor- 
row that  she  whose  pride  and  joy  I  might  have  been,  could 
never  hold  me  in  a  fond  embrace;  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
tell.  I  was  troubled  with  no  misgiving  that  it  was  young  in 
me  to  respond  to  her  emotions.  I  had  never  laughed  and 
cried  in  all  my  life,  I  dare  say — not  even  to  her — more  freely 
than  I  did  that  morning. 

"  Barkis  will  be  so  glad,"  said  Peggotty,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  apron,  "  that  it  'ill  do  him  more  good  than  pints  of 
Hniment.  May  I  go  and  tell  him  you  are  here  ?  Will  you 
come  up  and  see  him,  my  dear  ?" 

Of  course  I  would.  But  Peggotty  could  not  get  out  of 
the  room  as  easily  as  she  meant  to,  for  as  often  as  she  got  to 
the  door  and  looked  round  at  me,  she  came  back  again  to  have 
another  laugh  and  another  cry  upon  my  shoulder.  At  last, 
to  make  the  matter  easier,  I  went  up-stairs  with  her;  and 
having  waited  outside  for  a  minute,  while  she  said  a  word  of 
preparation  to  Mr.  Barkis,  presented  myself  before  that  in- 
valid. 

He  received  me  with  absolute  enthusiasm.  He  was  too 
rheumatic  to  be  shaken  hands  with,  but  he  begged  me  to 
shake  the  tassel  on  the  top  of  his  nightcap,  which  I  did 
most  cordially.  When  I  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  he 
said  that  it  did  him  a  world  of  good  to  feel  as  if  he  was 
driving  me  on  the  Blunderstone  road  again.  As  he  lay  in 
bed,  face  upward,  and  so  covered,  wjth  th^t  exception,  that 


300  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

he  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  a  face — like  a  conventional 
cherubim, — he  looked  the  queerest  object  I  ever  beheld. 

"  What  name  was  it,  as  I  wrote  up  in  the  cart,  sir  ?"  said 
Mr.  Barkis,  with  a  slow  rheumatic  smile. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Barkis,  we  had  some  grave  talks  about  that 
matter  hadn't  we  ?" 

"  I  was  willin'  a  long  time,  sir  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"  A  long  time,"  said  I. 

"  And  I  don't  regret  it,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.  "  Do  you  re- 
member what  you  told  me  once,  about  her  making  all  the 
apple  pasties  and  doing  all  the  cooking  ?" 

"  Yes, very  well,"  I  returned. 

"  It  was  as  true,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  "  as  turnips  is.  It  was 
as  true,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  nodding  his  nightcap,  which  was 
his  only  means  of  emphasis,  "  as  taxes  is.  And  nothing's 
truer  than  them." 

Mr.  Barkis  turned  his  eyes  upon  me,  as  if  for  my  assent 
to  this  result  of  his  reflections  in  bed;  and  I  gave  it. 

"Nothing's  truer  than  them,"  repeated  Mr.  Barkis;  "a 
man  as  poor  as  I  am  finds  that  out  in  his  mind  when  he's 
laid  up.     I'm  a  very  poor  man,  sir." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Barkis." 

"  A  very  poor  man,  indeed  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Here  his  right  hand  came  slowly  and  feebly  from  under 
the  bed-clothes,  and  with  a  purposeless  uncertain  grasp  took 
hold  of  a  stick  which  was  loosely  tied  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 
After  some  poking  about  with  this  instrument,  in  the  course 
of  which  his  face  assumed  a  variety  of  distracted  expressions, 
Mr.  Barkis  poked  it  against  a  box,  an  end  of  which  had 
been  visible  to  me  all  the  time.  Then  his  face  became  com- 
posed. 

"  Old  clothes,"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"  Oh  !"  said  I. 

"  I  wish  it  was  money,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"  I  wish  it  was,  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  But  it  ain't,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  opening  both  his  eyes  as 
wide  as  he  possibly  could. 

I  expressed  myself  quite  sure  of  that,  and  Mr.  Barkis, 
turning  his  eyes  more  gently  to  his  wife,  said: 

"  She's  the  usefullest  and  best  of  women,  C.  P.  Barkis.  All 
the  praise  that  anyone  can  give  to  C.  P.  Barkis,  she 
deserves,  and  more  !  My  dear,  you'll  get  a  dinner  to-day, 
for  company j  ^pme thing  good  to  eat  and  drink,  will 
you?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  30? 

I  should  have  protested  against  this  unnecessary  demon- 
stration in  my  honor,  but  that  I  saw  Peggotty,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  bed,  extremely  anxious  that  I  should  not. 
So  I  held  my  peace. 

"  I  have  got  a  trifle  of  money  somewhere  about  me,  my 
dear,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  *'  but  I'm  a  little  tired.  If  you  and 
Mr.  David  will  leave  me  for  a  short  nap,  I'll  try  and  find  it 
when  I  wake." 

We  left  the  room  in  compliance  with  this  request.  When 
we  got  outside  the  door,  Peggotty  informed  me  that  Mr. 
Barkis,  being  now  "a  little  nearer"  than  he  used  to  be, 
always  resorted  to  this  same  device  before  producing  a  sin- 
gle coin  from  his  store;  and  that  he  endured  unheard-of 
agonies  in  crawling  out  of  bed  alone,  and  taking  it  from  that 
unlucky  box.  In  effect,  we  presently  heard  him  uttering 
suppressed  groans  of  the  most  dismal  nature,  as  this  magpie 
proceeding  racked  him  in  every  joint;  but  while  Peggotty's 
eyes  were  full  of  compassion  for  him,  she  said  his  generous 
impulse  would  do  him  good,  and  it  was  better  not  to  check 
it.  So  he  groaned  on,  until  he  got  into  bed  again,  suffering, 
I  have  no  doubt,  a  martyrdom;  and  then  called  us  in  pre- 
tending to  have  just  woke  up  from  a  refreshing  sleep,  and  to 
produce  a  guinea  from  under  his  pillow.  His  satisfaction 
in  which  happy  imposition  on  us,  and  in  having  preserved 
the  impenetrable  secret  of  the  box,  appeared  to  be  a  suffi- 
cient compensation  to  him  for  all  his  tortures. 

I  prepared  Peggotty  for  Steerforth's  arrival,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  came.  I  am  persuaded  she  knew  no  dif- 
ference between  his  having  been  a  personal  benefactor  of 
hers,  and  a  kind  friend  to  me,  and  that  she  would  have  re- 
ceived him  with  the  utmost  gratitude  and  devotion  in  any 
case.  But  his  easy,  spirited,  good  humor;  his  genial  man- 
ner, his  handsome  looks,  his  natural  gift  of  adapting  himself 
to  whomsoever  he  pleased,  and  making  direct,  when  he  cared 
to  do  it,  to  the  main  point  of  interest  in  anybody's  heart; 
bound  her  to  him  wholly  in  five  minutes.  His  manner  to  me, 
alone,would  have  won  her.  But,  through  all  these  causes 
combined,  I  sincerely  believe  she  had  a  kind  of  adoration 
for  him  before  he  left  the  house  that  night. 

He  stayed  there  with  me  to  dinner — if  I  were  to  say 
willingly,  I  should  not  half  express  how  readily  and  gayly. 
He  went  into  Mr.  Barkis'  room  like  light  and  air,  brighten- 
ing and  refreshing  it  as  if  he  were  healthy  weather.     There 


3o8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

was  no  noise,  no  effort,  no  consciousness,  in  anything  he  did; 
but  in  everything  an  indescribable  lightness,  a  seeming  im- 
possibility of  doing  anything  else,  or  doing  anything  better, 
which  was  so  graceful,  so  natural,  and  agreeable,  that  it  over- 
comes me,  even  now,  in  the  remembrance. 

We  made  merry  in  the  little  parlor,  where  the  Book  of 
Martyrs,  unthumbed  since  my  time,  was  laid  out  upon  the 
desk  as  of  old,  and  where  I  now  turned  over  its  terrific  pic- 
tures, remembering  the  old  sensations  they  had  awakened, 
but  not  feeling  them.  When  Peggotty  spoke  of  what  she 
called  my  room,  and  of  its  being  ready  for  me  at  night,  and 
of  her  hoping  I  would  occupy  it,  before  I  could  so  much  as 
look  at  Steerforth,  hesitating,  he  was  possessed  of  the  whole 
case. 

''  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  you'll  sleep  here  while  we  stay,  and 
I  shall  sleep  at  the  hotel." 

"  But  to  bring  you  so  far,"  I  returned,  "  and  to  separate, 
seems  bad  companionship,  Steerforth." 

"Why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  where  do  you  naturally 
belong  !"  he  said.  "What  is  'seems,'  compared  to  that !" 
It  was  settled  at  once. 

He  maintained  all  his  delightful  qualities  to  the  last,  until 
we  started  forth,  at  eight  o'clock,  for  Mr.  Peggotty's  boat. 
Indeed,  they  were  more  and  more  brightly  exhibited  as  the 
hours  went  on;  for  I  thought  even  then,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  now,  that  the  consciousness  of  success  in  his  deter- 
mination to  please,  inspired  him  with  a  new  delicacy  of  per- 
ception, and  made  it,  subtle  as  it  was,  more  easy  to  him.  If 
any  one  had  told  me,  then,  that  all  this  was  a  brilliant  game, 
played  for  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  for  the  employ- 
ment of  high  spirits,  in  the  thoughtless  love  of  superiority, 
in  a  mere  wasteful,  careless  course  of  winning  what  was 
worthless  to  him,  and  next  minute  thrown  away — I  say,  if 
any  one  had  told  me  such  a  lie  that  night,  I  wonder  in  what 
manner  of  receiving  it  my  indignation  would  have  found  a 
vent ! 

Probably  only  in  an  increase,  had  that  been  possible,  of 
the  romantic  feelings  of  fidelity  and  friendship,  with  which 
I  walked  beside  him,  over  the  dark  wintry  sands,  towards 
the  old  boat;  the  wind  sighing  around  us  even  more  mourn- 
fully, than  it  had  sighed  and  moaned  upon  the  night  wher^  I 
first  darkened  Mr.  Peggotty's  door. 

"  This  is  a  wild  kind  of  place^  Steerforth,  is  it  not  ?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  309 

"  Dismal  enough  in  the  dark,"  he  said;  "  and  the  sea 
roars  as  if  it  were  hungry  for  us  Is  tJiat  the  boat,  where  I 
see  a  Hght  yonder  ?" 

"That's  the  boat,"  said  I. 

"  And  it's  the  same  I  saw  this  morning,"  he  returned. 
"  I  came  straight  to  it,  by  instinct,  I  suppose." 

We  said  no  more  as  we  approached  the  light,  but  made 
softly  for  the  door.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  the  latch;  and 
whispering  Steerforth  to  keep  close  to  me,  went  in. 

A  murmur  of  voices  had  been  audible  on  the  outside, 
and,  at  the  moment  of  our  entrance,  a  clapping  of  hands: 
which  latter  noise,  I  was  surprised  to  see,  proceeded  from 
the  generally  disconsolate  Mrs.  Gummidge.  But  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge  was  not  the  only  person  there,  who  was  unusually 
excited.  Mr.  Peggotty,  his  face  lighted  up  with  uncommon 
satisfaction,  and  laughing  with  all  his  might,  held  his  rough 
arms  wide  open,  as  if  for  little  Em'ly  to  run  into  them; 
Ham,  with  a  mixed  expression  in  his  face  of  admiration, 
exultation,  and  a  lumbering  sort  of  bashfulness  that  sat  up- 
on him  very  well,  held  little  Em'ly  by  the  hand,  as  if  he 
were  presenting  her  to  Mr.  Peggotty;  little  Em'ly  herself, 
blushing  and  shy,  but  delighted  with  Mr.  Peggotty's  delight, 
as  her  joyous  eyes  expressed,  was  stopped  by  our  entrance 
(for  she  saw  us  first)  in  the  very  act  of  springing  from  Ham 
to  nestle  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  embrace.  In  the  first  glimpse 
we  had  of  them  all,  and  at  the  moment  of  our  passing  from 
the  dark  cold  night  into  the  warm  light  room,  this  was  the 
way  in  which  they  were  all  employed:  Mrs.  Gummidge  in 
the  back  ground,  clapping  her  hands  like  a  madwoman. 

The  little  picture  was  so  instantaneously  dissolved  by  our 
going  in,  that  one  might  have  doubted  whether  it  had  ever 
been.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the  astonished  family,  face  to 
face  with  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  holding  out  my  h^nd  to  him, 
when  Ham  shouted: 

"  Mas'r  Davy  !     It's  Mas'r  Davy  !" 

In  a  moment  we  were  all  shaking  hands  with  one  an- 
other, and  asking  one  another  how  we  did,  and  telling  one 
another  how  glad  we  were  to  meet,  and  all  talking  at  once. 
Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  proud  and  overjoyed  to  see  us,  that  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do,  but  kept  over  and  over 
again  shaking  hands  with  me,  and  then  with  Steerforth,  and 
then  with  me,  and  then  ruffling  his  shaggy  hair  all  over  his 
head,  and  laughing  with  such  glee  and  triumph,  that  it  was 
a  treat  to  see  him. 


310  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"Why,  that  you  two  gent'lmen — gent'lmen  growed— 
should  come  to  this  Jiere  roof  to-night,  of  all  nights  in  my 
life,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "is  such  a  thing  as  never  happen- 
ed afore,  I  do  rightly  believe  !  Em'ly,  my  darling,  come 
here  !  Come  here,  my  little  witch  !  There's  Mas'r  Davy's 
friend,  my  dear  !  There's  the  gent'lman  as  you've  heerd  on, 
Em'ly.  He  comes  to  see  you,  along  with  Mas'r  Davy,  on 
the  brightest  night  of  your  uncle's  life  as  ever  was  or  will 
be.    Gorm  the  t'other  one,  and  horroar  for  it !" 

After  delivering  this  speech  all  in  a  breath,  and  with  ex- 
traordinary animation  and  pleasure,  Mr.  Peggotty  put  one 
of  his  large  hands  rapturously  on  each  side  of  his  niece's 
face,  and  kissing  it  a  dozen  times,  laid  it  with  a  gentle  pride 
and  love  upon  his  broad  chest,  and  patted  it  as  if  his  hand  had 
been  a  lady's.  Then  he  let  her  go;  and  as  she  ran  into  the 
little  chamber  where  I  used  to  sleep,  looked  round  upon  us, 
•quite  hot  and  out  of  breath  with  his  uncommon  satisfaction. 

"  If  you  two  gent'lmen — gent'lmen  growed  now,  and  such 
gent'lmen — "  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  So  th'are,  so  th'are  !"  cried  Ham.  "  Well  said  !  So 
th'are.     Mas'r  Davy  bor — gent'lmen  growed — so  th'are  !" 

"If  you  two  gent'lmen,  gent'lmen  growed,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  "  don't  excuse  me  for  being  in  a  state  of  mind, 
when  you  understand  matters,  I'll  arsk  your  pardon.  Em'ly, 
my  dear  ! — She  knows  I'm  a  going  to  tell,"  here  his  delight 
broke  out  again,  "  and  has  made  off.  Would  you  be  so 
good  as  look  arter  her,  mather,  for  a  minute  ?" 

Mrs.  Gummidge  nodded  and  disappeared. 

"  If  this  ain't,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  sitting  down  among  us 
by  the  fire,  "  the  brightest  night  o'  my  life,  I'm  a  shellfish — • 
biled  too — and  more  I  can't  say.  This  here  little  Em'ly, 
sir,"  in  a  low  voice  to  Steerforth,  " — her  as  you  see  a 
blushing  here  just  now — " 

Steerforth  only  nodded;  but  with  such  a  pleased  expres- 
sion of  interest,  and  of  participation  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  feel- 
ings, that  the  latter  answered  him  as  if  he  had  spoken. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  That's  her,  and  so 
she  is.     Thankee,  sir." 

Ham  nodded  to  me  several  times,  as  if  he  would  have 
said  so  too. 

"  This  here  little  Em'ly  of  ours,"  said  Mr.  PeggcJtty,  "  has 
been,  in  our  house,  what  I  suppose  (I'm  a  ignorant  man,  but 
that's  my  belief)  no  one  but  a  little  bright-eyed  creetur  can 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  3" 

be  in  a  house.  She  ain't  my  child;  I  never  had  one;  but  I 
couldn't  love  her  more.     You  understand  !  I  couldn't  do  it  !" 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Steerforth. 

"I  know  you  do,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  "and 
thankee  again.  Mas'r  Davy,  he  can  remember  what  she  was; 
you  may  judge  for  your  own  self  what  she  is;  but  neither  of 
you  can't  fully  know  what  she  has  been,  is,  and  will  be,  to 
my  loving  art.  I  am  rough,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  I  am 
as  rough  as  a  Sea  Porkypine;  but  no  one,  unless,  mayhap, 
it  is  a  woman,  can  know,  I  think,  what  our  little  Em'ly  is  to 
me.  And  betwixt  ourselves,"  sinking  his  voice  lower  yet, 
"  that  woman's  name  ain't  Missis  Gummidge  neither,  though 
she  has  a  world  of  merits." 

Mr.  Peggotty  ruffled  his  hair  again  with  both  hands,  as  a 
further  preparation  for  what  h^  was  going  to  say,  and  went 
on  with  a  hand  upon  each  of  his  knees. 

"  There  was  a  certain  person  as  had  know'd  our  Em'ly, 
from  the  time  when  her  father  was  drownded;  as  had  seen 
her  constant;  when  a  babby,  when  a  young  gal,  when  a 
woman.  Not  much  of  a  person  to  look  at,  he  warn't,"  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  "  something  o'  my  own  build — rough — a  good 
deal  o'  the  sou-wester  in  him — wery  salt — but,  on  the  whole, 
a  honest  sort  of  a  chap,  with  his  art  in  the  right  place." 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  Ham  grin  to  anything  like  the 
extent  to  which  he  sat  grinning  at  us  now. 

"  What  does  this  here  blessed  tarpaulin  go  and  do,"  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  with  his  face  on  high  noon  of  enjoyment, 
"  but  he  loses  that  there  art  of  his  to  our  little  Em'ly.  He 
fellers  her  about,  he  makes  hisself  a  sort  o'  servant  to  her, 
he  loses  in  a  great  measure  his  relish  for  his  wittles,  and  in 
the  long  run  he  makes  it  clear  to  me  wot's  amiss.  Nov/  I 
could  wish  myself,  you  see,  that  our  little  Em'ly  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  being  married.  I  could  wish  to  see  her,  at  all 
ewents,  under  articles  to  a  honest  man  as  had  a  right  to 
defend  her.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  live,  or  how  soon 
I  may  die;  but  I  know  that  if  I  was  capsized,  any  night,  in 
a  gale  of  wind  v<\  Yarmouth  Roads  here,  and  was  to  see  the 
town  lights  shining  for  the  last  time  over  the  rollers  as  I 
couldn't  make  no  nead  against,  I  could  go  down  quieter  for 
thinking  '  There's  a  man  ashore  there,  iron-true  to  my  little 
Em'ly,  God  bless  her,  and  no  wrong  can  touch  my  Em'ly 
while  so  be  as  that  man  lives  !"* 

Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a   simi)le  earnestness,    waved  hi?  right 


31  i»  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

arm,  as  if  he  were  waving  it  at  the  town-lights  for  the  last 
time,  and  then,  exchanging  a  nod  with  Ham,  whose  eye  he 
caught,  proceeded  as  before. 

"  Well !  I  counsels  him  to  speak  to  Em'ly.  He's  big 
enough,  but  he's  bashfuUer  than  a  little  un,  and  he  don't 
like.  So  /  speak.  '  What  !  Him  /'  says  Em'ly.  *  Him  that 
I've  know'd  so  intimate  so  many  years,  and  like  so  much  ! 
Oh,  Uncle  !  I  never  can  have  him.  He's  such  a  good  fellow!' 
I  gives  her  a  kiss,  and  I  says  no  more  to  her  than,  'My  dear, 
you're  right  to  speak  out,  you're  to  choose  for  yourself, 
you're  as  free  as  a  little  bird.'  Then  I  aways  to  him,  and  I 
says,  *  I  wish  it  could  have  been  so,  but  it  can't.  But  you 
can  both  be  as  you  was,  and  wot  I  say  to  you  is,  be  as  you 
was  with  her,  like  a  man.'  He  says  to  me,  a  shaking  of  my 
hand,  '  I  will  !'  he  says.  And  he  was — honorable  and  man- 
ful— for  two  years  going  on,  and  we  was  just  the  same  at 
home  here  as  afore." 

Mr.  Peggotty's  face,  which  had  varied  in  its  expression 
with  the  various  stages  of  his  narrative,  now  resumed  all 
its  former  triumphant  delight,  as  he  laid  a  hand  upon  my 
knee  and  a  hand  upon  Steerforth's  (previously  wetting  them 
both,  for  the  greater  emphasis  of  the  action),  and  divided 
the  following  speech  between  us: 

"  All  of  a  sudden,  one  evening — as  it  might  be  to-night — • 
comes  little  Em'ly  from  her  work,  and  him  with  her!  There 
ain't  so  much  in  that^  you'll  say.  No,  because  he  takes  care 
on  her,  like  a  brother,  arter  dark,  and  indeed,  afore  dark, 
and  at  all  times.  But  this  tarpaulin  chap,  he  takes  hold  o^ 
her  hand,  and  he  cries  out  to  me,  joyful,  '  Look  here!  This 
is  to  be  my  little  wife!'  And  she  says,  half  bold  and  half 
shy,  and  half  a  laughing  and  half  a  crying,  '  Yes,  uncle!  If 
you  please.' — If  I  please!"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty,  rolling  his 
head  in  an  ecstacy  at  the  idea;  "  Lord,  as  if  I  should  do 
anythink  else! — *  If  you  please,  I'm  steadier  now,  and  I  have 
thought  better  of  it,  and  I'll  be  as  good  a  little  wife  as  I  can 
to  him,  for  he's  a  dear  good  fellow!'  Then  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge,  she  claps  her  hands  like  a  play,  and  you  come  in. 
There!  the  murder's  out!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty — "You  come 
in!  It  took  place  this  here  present  hour;  and  here's  the 
man  that'll  marry  her,  the  minute  she's  out  of  her 
time." 

Ham  staggered,  as  well  he  might,  under  the  blow  Mr. 
Peggotty  dealt  him  in  his  Unbounded  joy,  as  a  mark  of  con 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  313 

fidence  and  friendship;  but  feeling  called  upon  to  say 
something  to  us,  he  said,  with  much  faltering  and  great 
difficulty: 

^'  She  warn't  no  higher  than  you  was,  Mas'r  Davy — when 
you  first  come — when  I  thought  what  she'd  grow  up  to  be. 
I  see  her  grow  up — gent'lmen — like  a  flower.  I'd  lay  down 
my  life  for  her — Mas'r  Davy — Oh!  most  content  and  cheer- 
ful! She's  more  to  me — gent'lmen — than — she's  all  p  me 
that  ever  I  can  want,  and  more  than  ever  I — than  ever  I 
could  say.  I — I  love  her  true.  There  ain't  a  gent'lman  in 
all  the  land — nor  yet  sailing  upon  all  the  sea — that  can  love 
his  lady  more  than  I  love  her,  though  there's  many  a  com- 
mon man — would  say  better — what  he  meant." 

I  thought  it  affecting  to  see  such  a  sturdy  fellow  as  Ham 
was  now,  trembling  in  the  strength  of  what  he  felt  for  the 
pretty  little  creature  who  had  won  his  heart.  I  thought  the 
simple  confidence  reposed  in  us  by  Mr.  Peggotty  and  by 
himself,  was,  in  itself,  affecting.  I  was  affected  by  the  story 
altogether.  How  far  my  emotions  were  influenced  by  the 
recollections  of  my  childhood,  I  don't  know.  Whether  I 
had  come  there  with  any  lingering  fancy  that  I  was  still  to 
love  little  Em'ly,  I  don't  know.  I  know  that  I  was  filled 
with  pleasure  by  all  this;  but,  at  first,  with  an  indescribably 
sensitive  pleasure,  that  a  very  little  would  have  changed 
to  pain. 

Therefore,  if  it  had  depended  upon  me  to  touch  the  pre- 
vailing chord  among  them  with  any  skill,  I  should  have 
made  a  poor  hand  of  it.  But  it  depended  upon  Steerforth: 
and  he  did  it  with  such  address,  that  in  a  few  minutes  we 
were  all  as  easy  and  as  happy  as  it  was  possible  to  be. 

"  Mr.  Peggotty,"  he  said,  *'  you  are  a  thoroughly  good 
fellow,  and  deserve  to  be  as  happy  as  you  are  to-night.  My 
hand  upon  it!  Ham,  I  give  you  joy,  my  boy.  My  hand 
upon  that,  too!  Daisy,  stir  the  fire,  and  make  it  a  brisk 
one!  and  Mr.  Peggotty,  unless  you  can  induce  your  gentle 
niece  to  come  back  (for  whom  I  vacate  this  seat  in  the  cor- 
ner), I  shall  go.  Any  gap  at  your  fireside  on  such  a  night 
— such  a  gap  least  of  all — I  wouldn't  make,  for  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies!" 

So  Mr.  Peggotty  went  into  my  old  room  to  fetch  little 
Em'ly.  At  first  little  Em'ly  didn't  like  to  come,  and  then 
Ham  went.  Presently  they  brought  her  to  the  fireside,  very 
much  confused,  and  very  shy, — but  she  soon  became  more 


314  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

assured  when  she  found  how  gently  and  respectfully  Steer-, 
forth  spoke  to  her;  how  skilfully  he  avoided  anything  that 
would  embarrass  her;  how  he  talked  to  Mr.  Peggotty  of 
boats,  and  ships,  and  tides,  and  fish;  how  he  referred  to  me 
about  the  time  when  he  had  seen  Mr.  Peggotty  at  Salem 
House;  how  delighted  he  was  with  the  boat  and  all  belong- 
ing to  it;  how  lightly  and  easily  he  carried  on,  until  he 
brought  us,  by  degrees,  into  a  charmed  circle,  and  we  were 
all  talking  away  without  any  reserve. 

Em'ly,  indeed,  said  little  all  the  evening;  but  she  looked, 
and  listened,  and  her  face  got  animated,  and  she  was 
charming.  Steerforth  told  a  story  of  a  dismal  shipwreck 
(which  arose  out  of  his  talk  with  Mr.  Peggotty),  as  if  he  saw 
it  all  before  him — and  little  Em'iy's  eyes  were  fastened  on 
him  all  the  time,  as  if  she  saw  it  too.  He  told  us  a  merry 
adventure  of  his  own,  as  a  relief  to  that,  with  as  much  gayety 
as  if  the  narrative  were  as  fresh  to  him  as  it  was  to  us — and 
little  Em'ly  laughed  until  the  boat  rang  with  the  musical 
sounds,  and  we  all  laughed  (Steerforth,  too),  in  irresistible 
sympathy  with  what  was  so  pleasant  and  light-hearted.  He 
got  Mr.  Peggotty  to  sing,  or  rather  to  roar,  "When  the 
stormy  winds  do  blow,  do  blow,  do  blow;"  and  he  sang  a 
sailor's  song  himself,  so  pathetically  and  beautifully,  that  I 
could  have  almost  fancied  that  the  real  wind,  creeping 
sorrowfully  round  the  house,  and  murmuring  low  through 
our  unbroken  silence,  was  there  to  listen. 

As  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  he  roused  that  victim  of  despond- 
ency with  a  success  never  attained  by  any  one  else  (so  Mr. 
Peggotty  informed  me)  since  the  decease  of  the  old  one. 
He  left  her  so  little  leisure  for  being  miserable  that  she  said 
the  next  day  she  thought  she  must  have  been  bewitched. 

But  he  set  up  no  monopoly  of  the  general  'attention,  or 
the  conversation.  When  little  Em'ly  grew  more  courageous^ 
and  talked  (but  still  bashfully)  across  the  fire  to  me,  of  our 
old  wanderings  upon  the  beach,  to  pick  up  shells  and  peb- 
bles; and  when  I  asked  her  if  she  recollected  how  I  used  to 
be  devoted  to  her,  and  when  we  both  laughed  and  reddened, 
casting  these  looks  back  on  the  pleasant  old  times,  so  unreal 
to  look  at  now;  he  was  silent  and  attentive,  and  observed  us 
thoughtfully.  She  sat,  at  this  time,  and  all  the  evening,  on 
the  old  locker  in  her  old  little  corner  by  the  fire — Ham  be- 
side her,  where  I  used  to  sit.  I  could  not  satisfy  myself 
whether  it  was  in  her  own  little  tormenting  way,  or  in  a 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  315 

maidenly  reserve  before  us,  that  she  kept  quite  close  to  the 
wall,  and  away  from  him;  but  I  observed  that  she  did  so,  all 
the  evening. 

As  I  remember,  it  was  almost  midnight  when  we  took  our 
leave.  We  had  had  some  biscuit  and  dried  fish  for  supper, 
and  Steerforth  had  produced  from  his  pocket  a  full  flask  of 
Hollands,  which  we  men  (I  may  say  we  men,  now,  without  a 
blush)  had  emptied.  We  parted  merrily;  and  as  they  all 
stood  crowded  round  the  door  to  light  us  as  far  as  they 
could  upon  our  road,  I  saw  the  sweet  blue  eyes  of  little 
Em'ly  peeping  after  us,  from  behind  Ham,  and  heard  her 
soft  voice  calling  to  us  to  be  careful  how  we  went. 

"A  most  engaging  little  Beauty  !"'said  Steerforth,  taking 
my  arm.  "  Well !  It's  a  quaint  place,  and  they  are  quaint 
company,  and  it's  quite  a  new  sensation  to  mix  with  them." 

*'  How  fortunate  we  are,  too,"  I  returned,  "  to  have  ar- 
rived to  witness  their  happiness  in  that  intended  marriage  ! 
I  never  saw  people  so  happy.  How  delightful  to  see  it,  and 
to  be  made  the  sharers  in  their  honest  joy,  as  we  have  been  !" 

"  That's  rather  a  chuckle-headed  fellow  for  the  girl;  isn't 
he  ?"  said  Steerforth. 

He  had  been  so  hearty  with  him,  and  with  them  all,  that 
I  felt  a  shock  in  this  unexpected  and  cold  reply.  But  turn- 
ing quickly  upon  him,  and  seeing  a  laugh  in  his  eyes,  I  an- 
swered, much  relieved  : 

"  Ah,  Steerforth  !  It's  well  for  you  to  joke  about  the 
poor !  You  may  skirmish  with  Miss  Dartle,  or  try  to  hide 
your  sympathies  in  jest  from  me,  but  I  know  better.  When 
I  see  how  perfectly  you  understand  them,  how  exquisitely 
you  can  enter  into  happiness  like  this  plain  fisherman's,  or 
humor  a  love  like  my  old  nurse's,  .T  know  that  there  is  not  a 
joy  or  sorrow,  not  an  emotion,  of  such  people,  that  can  be 
indifferent  to  you.  And  I  admire  and  love  you  for  it, 
Steerforth,  twenty  times  the  more  !" 

He  stopped,  and,  looking  in  my  face,  said,  "  Daisy,  I  be- 
lieve you  are  in  earnest,  and  are  good.  I  wish  we  all  were  !" 
Next  moment  he  was  gaily  singing  Mr.  Peggotty's  song,  as 
we  walked  at  a  round  pace  back  to  Yarmouth. 


3iff  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

'  CHAPTER  XXII. 

SOME    OLD    SCENES,    AND    SOME    NEW    PEOPLE. 

Steerforth  and  I  stayed  for  more  than  a  fortnight  in 
that  part  of  the  country.  We  were  very  much  together,  I 
need  not  say;  but  occasionally  we  were  asunder  for  some 
hours  at  a  time.  He  was  a  good  sailor,  and  I  was  but  an 
indifferent  one;  and  when  he  went  out  boating  with  Mr. 
Peggotty,  which  was  a  favorite  amusement  of  his,  I  general- 
ly  remained  ashore.  My  occupation  of  Peggotty's  spare- 
room  put  a  constraint  upon  me,  from  which  he  was  free: 
for,  knowing  how  assiduously  she  attended  on  Mr.  Barkis 
all  day,  I  did  not  like  to  remain  out  late  at  night;  whereas 
Steerforth,  lying  at  the  inn,  had  nothing  to  consult  but  his 
own  humor.  Thus  it  came  about,  that  I  heard  of  his  mak- 
ing little  treats  for  the  fishermen  at  Mr.  Peggotty's  house  of 
call,  ''  The  WiUing  Mind,"  after  I  was  in  bed,  and  of  his  be- 
ing afloat,  wrapped  in  fisherman's  clothes,  whole  moonlight 
nights,  and  coming  back  when  the  morning  tide  was  at  flood. 
By  this  time,  however,  I  knew  that  his  restless  nature  and 
bold  spirits  delighted  to  find  a  vent  in  rough  toil  and  hard 
weather,  as  in  any  other  means  of  excitement  that  presented 
itself  freshly  to  him;  so  none  of  his  proceedings  surprised 
me. 

Another  cause  of  our  being  sometimes  apart  was,  that  I 
had  naturally  an  interest  in  going  over  to  Blunderstone, 
and  revisiting  the  old  familiar  scenes  of  my  childhood; 
while  Steerforth,  after  being  there  once,  had  naturally  no 
great  interest  in  going  there  again.  Hence,  on  three  or 
four  days  that  I  can  at  once  recall,  we  went  our  several 
ways  after  an  early  breakfast,  and  met  again  at  a  late  din- 
ner. I  had  no  idea  how  he  employed  his  time  in  the  inter- 
val, beyond  a  general  knowledge  that  he  was  very  popular 
in  the  place,  and  had  twenty  means  of  actively  diverting 
himself  where  another  man  might  not  have  found  one. 

For  my  own  part,  my  occupation  in  my  solitary  pilgrim- 
ages was  to  recall  every  yard  of  the  old  road  as  I  went  along 
it,  and  to  haunt  the  old  spots,  of  which  I  never  tired.  I 
haunted  them,  as  my  memory  had  often  done,  and  lingered 
among  them  as  my  younger  thoughts  had  lingered  when  I 
was  far  away.     The  grave  beneath  the  tree,  where  both  my 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  317 

parents  lay — on  which  I  had  looked  out,  when  it  was  my 
father's  only,  with  such  curious  feelings  of  compassion,  and 
by  which  I  had  stood,  so  desolate,  when  it  was  opened  to 
receive  my  pretty  mother  and  her  baby — the  grave  which 
Peggotty's  own  faithful  care  had  ever  since  kept  neat,  and 
made  a  garden  of,  I  walked  near,  by  the  hour.  It  lay  a  lit- 
tle off  the  church-yard  path,  in  a  quiet  corner,*  not  so  far 
removed  but  I  could  read  the  names  upon  the  stone  as  I 
walked  to  and  fro,  startled  by  the  sound  of  the  church-bell 
when  it  struck  the  hour,  for  it  was  like  a  departed  voice  to 
me.  My  reflections  at  these  times  were  always  associated 
with  the  figure  I  was  to  make  in  life,  and  the  distinguished 
things  I  was  to  do.  My  echoing  footsteps  went  to  no  other 
tune,  but  were  as  constant  to  that  as  if  1  had  come  home  to 
build  my  castles  in  the  air  at  a  living  mother's  side. 

There  were  great  changes  in  my  old  home.  The  ragged 
nests  so  long  deserted  by  the  rooks,  were  gone;  and  the 
trees  were  lopped  and  topped  out  of  their  remembered  shapes. 
The  garden  had  run  wild,  and  half  the  windows  of  the 
house  were  shut  up.  It  was  occupied,  but  only  by  a  poor 
lunatic  gentleman,  and  the  people  who  took  care  of  him. 
He  was  always  sitting  at  my  little  window,  looking  out  into 
the  church-yard;  and  I  wondered  whether  his  rambling 
thoughts  ever  went  upon  any  of  the  fancies  that  used  to 
occupy  mine,  on  the  rosy  mornings  when  I  peeped  out  of 
that  same  little  window  in  my  night-clothes,  and  saw  the 
sheep  quietly  feeding  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 

Our  old  neighbors,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grayper,  were  gone  to 
South  America,  and  the  rain  had  made  its  way  through  the 
roof  of  their  empty  house,  and  stained  the  outer  walls.  Mr. 
Chillip  .was  married  again  to  a  tall,  raw-boned,  high-nosed 
wife;  and  they  had  a  weazen  little  baby,  with  a  heavy  head 
that  it  couldn't  hold  up,  and  two  weak  staring  eyes,  with 
which  it  seemed  to  be  always  wondering  why  it  had  ever 
been  born. 

It  was  with  a  singular  jumble  of  sadness  and  pleasure  that 
I  used  to  linger  about  my  native  place,  until  the  reddening 
winter  sun  admonished  me  that  it  was  time  to  start  on  my 
returning  walk.  But,  when  the  place  was  left  behind,  and 
especially  when  Steerforth  and  I  were  happily  seated  over 
dinner  by  a  blazing  fire,  it  was  delicious  to  think  of  having 
been  there.  So  it  was,  though  in  a  softened  degree,  when  I 
went  to  my  neat  room  at  night;  and,  turning  over  the  leaves 


3i8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

of  the  crocodile-book  (which  was  always  there,  upon  a  little 
table,)  remembered  with  a  grateful  heart  how  blest  I  was  in 
having  such  a  friend  as  Steerforth,  such  a  friend  as  Peggotty, 
and  such  a  substitute  for  what  I  had  lost  as  my  excellent  and 
generous  aunt. 

My  nearest  way  to  Yarmouth,  in  coming  back  from  these 
long  walks,  was  by  a  ferry.  It  landed  me  on  the  flat  between 
the  town  and  the  sea,  which  I  could  make  straight  across, 
and  so  save  myself  a  considerable  circuit  by  the  high  road. 
Mr.  Peggotty's  house  being  on  the  waste-place,  and  not  a 
hundred  yards  out  of  my  track,  I  always  looked  in  as  I  went 
by.  Steerforth  was  pretty  sure  to  be  there  expecting  me, 
and  we  went  on  together  through  the  frosty  air  and  gather- 
ing fog  towards  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  town. 

One  dark  evening,  when  I  was  later  than  usual — for  I  had 
that  day  been  making  my  parting  visit  to  Blunderstone,  as  we 
were  now  about  to  return  home — I  found  him  alone  in  Mr. 
Peggotty's  house,  sitting  thoughtfully  before  the  fire.  He 
was  so  intent  upon  his  own  reflections  that  he  was  quite  un- 
conscious of  my  approach.  This,  indeed,  he  might  easily 
have  been  if  he  had  been  less  absorbed,  for  footsteps  fell 
noiselessly  on  the  sandy  ground  outside;  but  even  my  en- 
trance failed  to  rouse  him.  I  was  standing  close  to  him, 
looking  at  him;  and  still,  with  a  heavy  brow,  he  was  lost  in 
meditation. 

He  gave  such  a  start  when  I  put  my  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  that  it  made  me  start  too. 

*' You  come  upon  me,"  he  said,  almost  angrily,  "like  a  re- 
proachful ghost." 

"  I  was  obliged  to  announce  myself  somehow,"  I  replied. 
"  Have  I  called  you  down  from  the  stars  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered.     "No." 

"  Up  from  anywhere,  then  ?"  said  I  taking  my  seat  near 
him. 

"  I  w^as  looking  at   the  pictures  in  the  fire,"  he  returned. 

"  But  you  are  spoiling  them  for  me,"  said  I,  as  he  stirred 
it  quickly  with  a  piece  of  burning  wood,  striking  out  of  it  a 
train  of  red-hot  sparks  that  went  careering  up  the  little  chim- 
ney, and  roaring  out  into  the  air. 

"  You  would  not  have  seen  them,"  he  returned.  "  I  detest 
this  mongrel  time,  neither  day  nor  night.  How  late  you  are  ? 
Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  I  have  been  taking  leave  of  my  usual  walk,"  said  I. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  315 

"And  I  have  been  sitting  here,"  said  Steerforth,  glancing 
round  the  room,  "  thinking  that  all  the  people  we  found  so 
glad  on  the  night  of  our  coming  down,  might — to  judge 
from  the  present  wasted  air  of  the  place — be  dispersed,  or 
dead,  or  come  to  I  don't  know  what  harm.  David,  I  wish 
to  God  I  had  had  a  judicious  father  these  last  twenty 
years!" 

"  My  dear  Steerforth,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  I  had  been  better  guided  !"  he 
exclaimed.  "  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  I  could  guide  myself 
better!" 

There  was  a  passionate  dejection  in  his  manner  that  quite 
amazed  me.  He  was  more  unlike  himself  than  I  could  have 
supposed  possible. 

"  It  would  be  better  to  be  this  poor  Peggotty,  or  his  lout 
of  a  nephew,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  leaning  moodily  against 
the  chimney-piece,  with  his  face  toward  the  fire,  "  than  to  be 
myself,  twenty  times  richer  and  twenty  times  wis^r  and  be 
the  torment  to  myself  that  I  have  been,  in  this  Devil's  bark 
of  a  boat,  within  the  last  half  hour  !" 

I  was  so  confounded  by  the  alteration  in  him,  that  at  first 
I  could  only  observe  him  in  silence,  as  he  stood  leaning  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  looking  gloomily  down  at  the  fire. 
At  length  I  begged  him,  with  all  the  earnestness  I  felt,  to  tell 
me  what  had  occurred  to  cross  him  so  unusually,  and  to  let 
me  sympathize  with  him  if  I  could  not  hope  to  advise  him. 
Before  I  had  well  concluded,  he  began  to  laugh — fretfully  at 
first,  but  soon  with  returning  gayety. 

"  Tut,  it's  nothing,  Daisy  !  nothing  !"  he  replied.  "  I  told 
you,  at  the  inn  in  London,  I  am  heavy  company  for  myself 
sometimes.  I  have  been  a  nightmare  to  myself,  just  now — 
must  have  had  one,  I  think.  At  odd  dull  times,  nursery  tales 
come  up  into  the  memory,  unrecognized  for  what  they  are. 
I  believe  I  have  been  confounding  myself  with  the  bad  boy 
who  *  didn't  care,'  and  became  food  for  lions — a  grander 
kind  of  going  to  the  dogs,  I  suppose.  What  old  women  call 
the  horrors,  have  been  creeping  over  me  from  head  to  foot 
I  have  been  afraid  of  myself." 

"You  are  afraid  of  nothing  else,  I  think,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  not,  and  yet  may  have  enough  to  be  afraid  of, 
too,"  he  answered.  "Well!  So  it  goes  by!  I  am  not 
about  to  be  hipped  again,  David ;  but  I  tell  you,  my 
good  fellow,  once  more,  that  it  would  have  been  well  for 


320  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

me  (and  for  more  than  me)  if  I  had  had  a  steadfast  and 
judicious  father !" 

His  face  was  always  full  of  expression,  but  I  never  saw  it 
express  such  a  dark  kind  of  earnestness  as  when  he  said 
these  words,  with  his  glance  bent  on  the  fire. 

"So  much  for  that!"  he  said,  making  as  if  he  tossed 
something  light  into  the  air  with  his  hand, 

**  *  Why,  being  gone,  I  am  a  man  again,' 

like  Macbeth.  And  now  for  dinner!  If  I  have  not  (Mac- 
beth-like) broken  up  the  feast  with  most  admired  disorder, 
Daisy." 

"  But  where  are  they  all,  I  wonder  ?"  said  I. 

"  God  knows,"  said  Steerforth.  "  After  strolling  to  the 
ferry,  looking  for  you,  I  strolled  in  here  and  found  the  place 
deserted.  That  set  me  thinking,  and  you  found  me 
thinking." 

The  advent  of  Mrs.  Gummidge,  with  a  basket,  explained 
how  the  house  happened  to  be  empty.  She  had  hurried  out 
to  buy  something  that  was  needed,  against  Mr.  Peggotty's 
return  with  the  tide;  and  had  left  the  door  open  in  the 
meanwhile,  lest  Ham  and  little  Em'ly,  with  whom  it  was  an 
early  night,  should  come  home  while  she  was  gone.  Steer- 
forth,  after  very  much  improving  Mrs.  Gummidge's  spirits 
by  a  cheerful  salutation,  and  a  jocose  embrace,  took  my 
arm,  and  hurried  me  away. 

He  had  improved  his  own  spirits,  no  less  than  Mrs. 
Gummidge's,  for  they  were  again  at  their  usual  flow,  and 
he  was  full  of  vivacious  conversation  as  we  went  along. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  gaily,  "we  abandon  this  buccaneer 
life  to-morrow,  do  we  ?" 

"  So  we  agreed,"  I  returned.  "And  our  places  by  the 
coach  are  taken,  you  know." 

"Ay!  there's  no  help  for  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Steerforth. 
"  I  have  almost  forgotten  that  there  is  anything  to  do  in 
the  world  but  to  go  out  tossing  on  the  sea  here.  I  wish 
there  was  not." 

"As  long  as  the  novelty  should  last,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"  Like  enough,"  he  returned;  "though  there's  a  sarcastic 
meaning  in  that  observation  for  an  amiable  piece  of  inno- 
cence like  my  young  friend.  Well!  I  dare  say  I  am  a  capri- 
cious fellow,  David.  I  know  I  am  ;  but  while  the  iron  is 
hot,  I  can  strike  it  vigorously,  too.     I  could  pass  a  reason 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  321 

ably  good  examination  already,  as  pilot  in  these  waters,  I 
think." 

"Mr.  Peggotty  says  you  are  a  wonder,"  I  returned. 

"  A  nautical  phenomenon,  eh  ?"  laughed  Steerforth. 

"  Indeed  he  does,  and  you  know  how  truly;  knowing  how 
ardent  you  are  in  any  pursuit  you  follow,  and  how  easily 
you  can  master  it.  And  that  amazes  me  most  in  you,  Steer- 
forth — that  you  should  be  contented  with  such  fitful  use  of 
your  powers." 

"  Contented  ?"  he  answered,  merrily.  "  I  am  never  con- 
tented, except  with  your  freshness,  my  gentle  Daisy.  As  to 
fitfulness,  I  have  never  learnt  the  art  of  binding  myself  to 
any  of  the  wheels  on  which  the  Ixions  of  these  days  are 
turning  round  and  round.  I  missed  it  somehow  in  a  bad 
apprenticeship,  and  now  don't  care  about  it.  You  know  I 
have  bought  a  boat  down  here  ?" 

"What  an  extraordinary  fellow  you  are,  Steerforth!"  I 
exclaimed,  stopping — ^for  this  was  the  first  I  had  heard  of 
it.  "  When  you  may  never  care  to  come  near  the  place 
again  !" 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  he  returned.  "  I  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  the  place.  At  all  events,"  walking  me  briskly  on,  "  I  have 
bought  a  boat  that  was  for  sale — a  clipper,  Mr.  Peggotty 
says;  and  so  she  is — and  Mr.  Peggotty  will  be  master  of  her 
in  my  absence." 

"  Now  I  understand  you,  Steerforth!"  said  I,  exultingly. 
"  You  pretend  to  have  bought  it  for  yourself,  but  you  have 
really  done  so  to  confer  a  benefit  on  him.  I  might  have 
known  as  much  at  first,  knowing  you.  My  dear,  kind 
Steerforth,  how  can  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  gen- 
erosity ?" 

"  Tush  !"  he  answered,  turning  red.  "  The  less  said,  the 
better."  • 

"  Didn't  I  know  ?"  cried  I,  "  didn't  I  say  that  there  was 
not  a  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  any  emotion  of  such  honest  hearts 
that  was  indifferent  to  you  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,"  he  answered,  "  you  told  me  all  that.  There 
let  it  rest.     We  have  said  enough  !" 

Afraid  of  offending  him  by  pursuing  the  subject  when  he 
made  so  light  of  it,  I  only  pursued  it  in  my  thoughts  as  we 
went  on  at  even  a  quicker  pace  than  before. 

"  She  must  be  newly  rigged,"  said  Steerforth,  "  and  I  shall 
leave  Littimer  behind  to  see  it  done,  that  I  may  know  she  is 


322  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

quite  complete.  Did  I  tell  you  Littimer  had  come 
down  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  came  down  this  morning,  with  a  letter  from 
my  mother." 

As  our  looks  met,  I  observed  that  he  was  pale  even  to  his 
lips,  though  he  looked  very  steadily  at  me.  I  feared  that 
some  difference  between  him  and  his  mother  might  have  led 
to  his  being  in  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  I  had  found  him 
at  the  solitary  fireside.     I  hinted  so. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  and  giving  a  slight 
laugh.  "  Nothing  of  that  sort  !  Yes.  He  is  come  down, 
that  man  of  mine." 

"  The  same  as  ever  ?"  said  I. 

"  The  same  as  ever,"  said  Steerforth.  "  Distant  and  quiet 
as  the  North  Pole,  He  shall  see  to  the  boat  being  fresh 
named.  She's  the  Stormy  Petrel  now.  What  does  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty  care  for  Stormy  Petrels  !  I'll  have  her  christened  again." 

"  By  what  name  ?"  I  asked. 

"  The  Little  Em'ly." 

As  he  had  continued  to  look  steadily  at  me,  I  took  it  as  a 
reminder  that  he  objected  to  being  extolled  for  his  considera- 
tion. I  could  not  help  showing  in  my  face  how  much  it 
pleased  me,  but  I  said  little,  and  he  resumed  his  usual  smile, 
and  seemed  relieved. 

"  But  see  here,"  he  said,  looking  before  us,  "  there  the 
original  little  Em'ly  comes !  And  that  fellow  with  her, 
eh?  Upon  my  soul,  he's  a  true  knight.  He  never  leaves 
her  !  " 

Ham  was  a  boat-builder  in  these  days,  having  improved  a 
natural  ingenuity  in  that  handicraft,  until  he  had  become 
a  skilled  workman.  He  was  in  his  working-dress,  and  looked 
rugged  enough,  but  manly  withal,  and  a  very  fit  protector 
for  the  blooming  little  creature  at  his  side.  Indeed,  there 
was  a  frankness  in  his  face,  an  honesty,  and  an  undisguised 
show  of  his  pride  in  her,  and  his  love  for  her  which  were,  to 
me,  the  best  of  good  looks.  I  thought,  as  they  came  to- 
wards us,  that  th'ey  were  well  matched  even  in  that  particular. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  timidly  from  his  arm  as  we  stopped 
to  speak  to  them,  and  blushed  as  she  gave  it  to  Steerforth 
and  to  me.  When  they  passed  on,  after  we  had  exchanged 
a  few  words,  she  did  not  like  to  replace  that  hand,  but,  still 
appearing  timid  and  constrained,  walked  by  herself.  I 
thought  all  this  very  pretty  and  engaging,  and  Steerforth 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  3^3 

seemed  to  think  so  too,  as  we  looked  after  them  fading  away 
in  the  light  of  a  young  moon. 

Suddenly  there  passed  us — evidently  following  them — a 
young  woman  whose  approach  we  had  not  observed,  but 
whose  face  I  saw  as  she  went  by,  and  thought  I  had  a  faint 
remembrance  of.  She  was  lightly  dressed;  looked  bold, 
and  haggard,  and  flaunting,  and  poor;  but  seemed,  for  the 
time,  to  have  given  all  that  to  the  wind  which  was  blowing, 
and  to  have  nothing  in  her  mind  but  going  after  them.  As 
the  dark  distant  level,  absorbing  their  figures  into  itself,  left 
but  itself  visible  between  us  and  the  sea  and  clouds,  her 
figure  disappeared  in  like  manner,  still  no  nearer  to  them 
than  before. 

"  That  is  a  black  shadow  to  be  following  the  girl,"  said 
Steerforth,  standing  still;  "  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  that  sounded  almost  strange  to  me. 

"  She  must  have  it  in  her  mind  to  beg  of  them,  I  think,'* 
said  I. 

"  A  beggar  would  be  no  novelty,"  said  Steerforth,  "  but  it 
is  a  strange  thing  that  the  beggar  should  take  that  shape  to- 
night." 

"  Why  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"  For  no  better  reason,  truly,  than  because  I  was  think- 
ing," he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  of  something^  like  it,  when  it 
came  by.     Where  the  Devil  did  it  come  from,  I  wonder  !" 

"  From  the  shadow  of  this  wall,  I  think,"  said  I,  as  we 
emerged  upon  a  road  on  which  a  wall  abutted. 

"  It's  gone !"  he  returned  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
"  And  all  will  go  with  it.     Now  for  our  dinner  !" 

But  he  looked  again  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  sea- 
line  glimmering  afar  off;  and  yet  again.  And  he  wondered 
about  it,  in  some  broken  expressions,  several  times,  in  the 
short  remainder  of  our  walk;  and  only  seemed  to  forget  it 
when  the  light  of  fire  and  candle  shone  upon  us,  seated 
warm  and  merry,  at  table. 

Littimer  was  there,  and  had  his  usual  effect  upon  me. 
When  I  said  to  him  that  I  hoped  Mrs.  Steerforth  and  Miss 
Dartle  were  well,  he  answered  respectfully  (and  of  course 
respectably),  that  they  were  tolerably  well,  he  thanked  me, 
and  had  sent  their  compliments.  This  was  all,  and  yet  he 
seemed  to  me  to  say  as  plainly  as  a  man  could  say:  "You 
are  very  young,  sir;  you  are  exceedingly  young." 

We  had  almost  finished  dinner,  when,  taking  a  step  or  two 


324  DAVID  COPPEkFIELD. 

towards  the  table,  from  the  corner  where  he  kept  watch  up- 
on us,  or  rather  upon  me,  as  I  felt,  he  said  to  his  master: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     Miss  Mowcher  is  down  here." 

"Who?"  cried  Steerforth,  much  astonished. 

"  Miss  Mowcher,  sir." 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  does  she  do  here?"  said  Steerforth. 

"  It  appears  to  be  her  native  part  of  the  country,  sir.  She 
informs  me  that  she  makes  one  of  her  professional  visits 
here  every  year,  sir.  I  met  her  in  the  street  this  afternoon, 
and  she  wished  to  know  if  she  might  have  the  honor  of  wait- 
ing on  you  after  dinner,  sir." 

"  Do  you  know  the  giantess  in  question,  Daisy?"  inquired 
Steerforth. 

I  was  obliged  to  confess — I  felt  ashamed,  even  of  being 
at  this  disadvantage  before  Littimer — that  Miss  Mowcher 
and  I  were  AvhoUy  unacquainted. 

*'Then  you  shall  know  her,"  said  Steerforth,  "for  she  is 
one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world.  When  Miss  Mow- 
cher comes,  show  her  in." 

I  felt  some  curiosity  and  excitement  about  this  lady, 
especially  as  Steerforth  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughing  when  I 
referred  to  her,  and  positively  refused  to  answer  any  ques- 
tion of  which  I  made  her  the  subject.  I  remained,  there- 
fore, in  a  state  of  considerable  expectation  until  the  cloth 
had  been  removed  some  half  an  hour,  and  we  were  sitting 
over  our  decanter  of  wine  before  the  fire,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Littimer,  with  his  habitual  serenity  quite  un- 
disturbed, announced: 

"  Miss  Mowcher!" 

I  looked  at  the  doorway  and  saw  nothing.  I  was  still 
looking  at  the  doorway,  thinking  that  Miss  MoAvcher  was  a 
long  while  making  her  appearance,  when,  to  my  infinite  as- 
tonishment, there  came  waddling  round  a  sofa  which  stood 
between  me  and  it,  a  pursy  dwarf,  of  about  forty  or  forty- 
five,  with  a  very  large  head  and  face,  a  pair  of  roguish  gray 
eyes,  and  such  extremely  little  arms,  that,  to  enable  herself 
to  lay  a  finger  archly  against  her  snub  nose,  as  she  ogled 
Steerforth,  she  was  obliged  to  meet  the  finger  half-way,  and 
lay  her  nose  against  it.  Her  chin,  which  was  what  is  called 
a  double  chin,  was  so  fat  that  it  entirely  swallowed  up  the 
strings  of  her  bonnet,  bow  and  all.  Throat  she  had  none; 
waist  she  had  none;  legs  she  had  none,  worth  mentioning; 
for  though  she  was  more  than  full-sized  down  to  where  her 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  325 

waist  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  any,  and  though  she 
terminated,  as  human  beings  generally  do,  in  a  pair  of  feet, 
she  was  so  short  that  she  stood  at  a  common-sized  chair  as 
at  a  table,  resting  a  bag  she  carried  on  the  seat.  This  lady, 
dressed  in  an  off-hand,  easy  style,  bringing  her  nose  and  her 
forefinger  together,  with  the  difficulty  I  have  described, 
standing  with  her  head  necessarily  on  one  side,  and,  with 
one  of  her  sharp  eyes  shut  up,  making  an  uncommonly 
knowing  face,  after  ogling  Steerforth  for  a  few  moments, 
broke  into  a  torrent  of  words. 

"What!  My  flower!"  she  pleasantly  began,  shaking  her 
large  head  at  him.  "You're  there,  are  you!  Oh,  you 
naughty  boy,  fie  for  shame,  what  do  you  do  so  far  away 
from  home?  Up  to  mischief,  I'll  be  bound.  Oh,  you're  a 
downy  fellow,  Steerforth,  so  you  are,  and  I'm  another,  ain't 
I?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  You'd  have  betted  a  hundred  pound  to 
five,  now,  that  you  wouldn't  have  seen  me  here,  wouldn't 
you?  Bless  you,  man  alive,  I'm  everywhere;  I'm  here  and 
there,  and  where  not,  like  the  conjuror's  half-crown  in  the 
lady's  hankercher.  Talking  of  hankerchers — and  talking  of 
ladies — what  a  comfort  you  are  to  your  blessed  mother, 
ain't  you,  my  dear  boy,  over  one  of  my  shoulders,  and  I 
don't  say  which!" 

Miss  Mowcher  untied  her  bonnet,  at  this  passage  of  her 
discourse,  threw  back  the  strings,  and  sat  down,  panting,  on 
a  footstool  in  front  of  the  fire — making  a  kind  of  arbor  of 
the  dining-table,  which  spread  its  mahogany  shelter  ah  >ve 
her  head. 

"Oh  my  stars  and  what's-their-names!"  she  went  on,  clap- 
ping a  hand  on  each  of  her  little  knees,  and  glancing 
shrewdly  at  me,  " I'm  of  too  full  a  habit,  that's  the  fact, 
Steerforth.  After  a  flight  of  stairs,  it  gives  me  as  much 
trouble  to  draw  every  breath  I  want,  as  if  it  was  a  bucket 
of  water.  If  you  saw  me  looking  out  of  an  upper  window, 
you'd  think  I  was  a  fine  woman,  wouldn't  you?" 

"  I  should  think  that  wherever  I  saw  you,"  replied  Steer- 
forth. 

"  Go  along,  you  dog,  do!"  cried  the  little  creature,  making 
a  whisk  at  him  with  the  handkerchief  with  which  she  was 
wiping  her  face,  "and  don't  be  impudent!  But  I  give  you 
my  word  and  honor  I  was  at  Lady  Mithers's  last  week — 
there's  a  woman!  How  she  wears! — and  Mithers  himself 
came  into  the  room  where  I  was  waiting  for  her — there's  a 


326 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


man!  How  he  wears!  and  his  wig  too,  for  he's  had  it  these 
ten  years — and  he  went  on  at  that  rate  in  the  complimentary 
line,  that  I  began  to  think  that  I  should  be  obliged  to  ring 
the  bell.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  He's  a  pleasant  wretch,  but  he  wants 
principle." 

"  What  were  you  doing  for  Lady  Mithers?"  asked  Steer- 
forth. 

*'  That's  tellings,  my  blessed  infant,"  she  retorted,  tapping 
her  nose  again,  screwing  up  her  face,  and  twinkling  her  eyes 
like  an  imp  of  supernatural  intelligence.  "  Never  j'^^<!  mind! 
You'd  like  to  know  whether  I  stop  her  hair  from  falling  off, 
or  dye  it,  or  touch  up  her  complexion,  or  improve  her  eye- 
brows, wouldn't  you?  And  so  you  shall,  my  darling — when 
I  tell  you!  Do  you  know  what  my  great  grandfather's  name 
was?" 

"  No,"  said  Steerforth. 

"  It  was  Walker,  my  sweet  pet,"  replied  Miss  Mowcher, 
"  and  he  came  of  a  long  line  of  Walkers,  that  I  inherit  all 
the  Hookey  estates  from." 

I  never  beheld  anything  approaching  to  Miss  Mowcher's 
wink,  except  Miss  Mowcher's  self-possession.  She  had  a 
wonderful  way  too,  when  listening  to  what  was  said  to  her, 
or  when  waiting  for  an  answer  to  what  she  had  said  herself, 
of  pausing  with  her  head  cunningly  on  one  side,  and  one 
eye  turned  up  like  a  magpie's.  Altogether  I  was  lost  in 
amazement,  and  sat  staring  at  her,  quite  oblivious,  I  am 
afraid,  of  the  laws  of  politeness. 

She  had  by  this  time  drawn  the  chair  to  her  side,  and  was 
busily  engaged  in  producing  from  the  bag  (plunging  in  her 
short  arm  to  the  shoulder  at  every  dive)  a  number  of  small 
bottles,  sponges,  combs,  brushes,  bits  of  flannel,  little  pairs 
of  curling  irons,  and  other  instruments,  which  she  tumbled 
in  a  heap  upon  the  chair.  From  this  employment  she  sud- 
denly desisted,  and  said  to  Steerforth,  much  to  my  confusion: 

"  Who's  your  friend?" 

"Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Steerforth;  "he  wants  to  know 
you." 

"  Well,  then,  he  shall!  I  thought  he  looked  as  if  he  did!" 
returned  Miss  Mowcher,  waddling  up  to  me,  bag  in  hand, 
and  laughing  on  me  as  she  came.  "Face  like  a  peach!" 
standing  on  tiptoe  to  pinch  my  cheek  as  I  sat.  "  Quite 
tempting!  I'm  very  fond  of  peaches.  Happy  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I'm  sure." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  337 

I  said  that  I  congratulated  myself  on  having  the  honor 
to  make  hers,  and  that  the  happiness  was  mutual. 

"Oh  my  goodness,  how  polite  we  are!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Mowcher,  making  a  preposterous  attempt  to  cover  her  large 
face  with  her  morsel  of  a  hand.  "  What  a  world  of  gam- 
mon and  spinage  it  is,  though,  ain't  it?" 

This  was  addressed  confidentially  to  both  of  us,  as  the 
morsel  of  a  hand  came  away  from  the  face,  and  buried  it- 
self, arm  and  all,  in  the  bag  again. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Miss  Mowcher?"  said  Steerforth. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  a  refreshing  set  of  humbugs  we  are, 
to  be  sure,  ain't  we,  my  sweet  child?"  replied  that  morsel  of 
a  woman,  feeling  in  the  bag  with  head  on  one  side,  and  her 
eye  in  the  air.  "  Look  here!"  taking  something  out.  "  Scraps 
of  the  Russian  Prince's  nails!  Prince  Alphabet  turned 
topsy-turvy,  /  call  him,  for  his  name's  got  all  the  letters  in 
it,  higgledy-piggledy." 

"  The  Russian  Prince  is  a  client  of  yours,  is  he?"  said 
Steerforth. 

"  I  believe  you,  my  pet,"  replied  Miss  Mowcher.  "  I  keep 
his  nails  in  order  for  him.  Twice  a  week!  Fingers  and 
toes!" 

"  He  pays  well,  I  hope?"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Pays  as  he  speaks,  my  dear  child — through  the  nose," 
replied  Miss  Mowcher.  *' None  of  your  close  shavers  the 
Prince  ain't.  You'd  say  so,  if  you  saw  his  mustachios.  Red 
by  nature,  black  by  art." 

"  By  your  art,  of  course,"  said  Steerforth. 

Miss  Mowcher  winked  assent.  "  Forced  to  send  for  me. 
Couldn't  help  it.  The  climate  affected  his  dye;  it  did  very 
well  in  Russia,  but  it  was  no  go  here.  You  never  saw  such 
a  rusty  Prince  in  all  your  born  days  as  he  was.  Like  old 
iron!" 

"  Is  that  why  you  called  him  a  humbug  just  now  ?"  in- 
quired Steerforth. 

"  Oh,  you're  a  broth  of  a  boy,  ain't  you  ?"  returned  Miss 
Mowcher,  shaking  her  head  violently.  "  I  said,  what  a  set 
of  humbugs  we  were  in  general,  and  I  showed  you  the  scraps 
of  the  Prince's  nails,  to  prove  it.  The  Prince's  nails  do  more 
for  me,  in  private  families  of  the  genteel  sort,  than  all  my 
talents  put  together.  I  always  carry  'em  about.  They're  the 
best  introduction.  If  Miss  Mowcher  cuts  the  Prince's  nails, 
she  must  be  all  right.     I  give  'em  away  to  the  young  ladies. 


328  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

They  put  'em  in  albums,  I  believe.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Upon 
my  life,  '  the  whole  social  system  '  (as  the  men  call  it  when 
they  make  speeches  in  Parliament)  is  a  system  of  Prince's 
nails  !"  said  this  least  of  women,  trying  to  fold  her  short 
arms,  and  nodding  her  large  head. 

Steerforth  laughed  heartily,  and  I  laughed  too.  Miss  Mow- 
cher  continuing  all  the  time  to  shake  her  head  (which  was 
very  much  on  one  side),  and  to  look  into  the  air  with  one 
eye,  and  to  wink  with  the  other. 

"  Well,  well  !"  she  said,  smiting  her  small  knees,  and  ris- 
ing, "  this  is  not  business.  Come,  Steerforth,  let's  explore 
the  polar  regions,  and  have  it  over." 

She  then  selected  two  or  three  of  the  little  instruments, 
and  a  little  bottle,  and  asked  (to  my  surprise)  if  the  table 
would  bear.  On  Steerforth's  replying  in  the  affirmative,  she 
pushed  a  chair  against  it,  and  begging  the  assistance  of  my 
hand,  mounted  up,  pretty  nimbly,  to  the  top,  as  if  it  were  a 
stage. 

*'  If  either  of  you  saw  my  ankles,"  she  said,  when  she  was 
safely  elevated,  "  say  so,  and  I'll  go  home  and  destroy  my- 
self." 

"  /  did  not,"  said  Steerforth. 

"/did  not,"  said  I. 

"  Well  then,"  cried  Miss  Mowcher,  **  I'll  consent  to  live. 
Now,  ducky,  ducky  ducky,  come  to  Mrs.  Bond  and  be 
killed  !" 

This  was  an  invitation  to  Steerforth  to  place  himself  under 
her  hands;  who,  accordingly,  sat  himself  down,  with  his  back 
to  the  table,  and  his  laughing  face  towards  me,  and  submitted 
his  head  to  her  inspection,  evidently  for  no  other  purpose 
than  our  entertainment.  To  see  Miss  Mowcher  standing  over 
him,  looking  at  his  rich  profusion  of  brown  hair  through  a 
large  round  magnifying  glass,  which  she  took  out  of  her 
pocket,  was  a  most  amazing  spectacle. 

^^  You're  a  pretty  fellow  !"  said  Miss  Mowcher,  after  a  brief 
inspection.  "  You'd  be  as  bald  as  a  friar  on  the  top  of  your 
head  in  twelve  months,  but  for  me.  Just  half-a-minute,  my 
young  friend,  and  we'll  give  you  a  polishing  that  shall  keep 
your  curls  on  for  the  next  ten  years  !" 

With  this,  she  tilted  some  of  the  contents  of  a  little  bottle 
on  to  one  of  the  little  bits  of  flannel,  and,  again  imparting 
some  of  the  virtues  of  that  preparation  to  one  of  the  little 
brushes,  began  rubbing  and  scraping  away  with  both  on  the 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  329 

crown  of  Steerforth's  head  in  the  busiest  manner  I  ever  wit- 
nessed, talking  all  the  time. 

"  There's  Charley  Pyegrave,  the  duke's  son,"  she  said. 
"  You  know  Charley  ?"  peeping  round  into  his  face. 

"  A  little,"  said  Steerforth. 

*'  What  a  man  he  is  !  There's  a  whisker  !  As  to  Charley's 
legs,  if  they  were  only  a  pair  (which  they  ain't)  they'd  defy 
competition.  Would  you  believe  he  tried  to  do  without  me 
— in  the  Life-guards,  too  ?" 

"  Mad!"  said  Steerforth. 

"  It  looks  Uke  it.  However,  mad  or  sane,  he  tried,"  re- 
turned Miss  Mowcher.  "  What  does  he  do,  but,  lo  and  be- 
hold you,  he  goes  into  a  perfumer's  shop,  and  wants  to  buy 
a  bottle  of  the  Madagascar  Liquid  1" 

"  Charley  does  ?"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Charley  does.  But  they  haven't  got  any  of  the  Mada- 
gascar Liquid." 

"  What  is  it  ?     Something  to  drink  ?"  asked  Steerforth. 

"  To  drink  ?"  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  stopping  to  slap  his 
cheek.  "  To  doctor  his  own  moustachios  with,  you  know. 
There  was  a  woman  in  the  shop — elderly  female — quite  a 
Griffin — who  had  never  even  heard  of  it  byname.  *  Beg- 
ging pardon,  sir,'  said  the  Griffin  to  Charley,  'it's  not — 
not — not — ROUGE,  is  it?'  *  Rouge,*  said  Charley  to  the 
Griffin.  *  What  the  unmentionable  to  ears  polite,  do  you 
think  I  want  with  rouge  ?'  *  No  offense,  sir,'  said  the  Griffin: 
*  we  have  it  asked  for  by  so  many  names,  I  thought  it  might 
be.'  Now  that,  my  child,"  continued  Miss  Mowcher,  rub- 
bing all  the  time  as  busily  as  ever,  "is  another  instance  of 
the  refreshing  humbug  I  was  speaking  of.  /  do  something 
in  that  way  myself — perhaps  a  good  deal — perhaps  a  Httle — 
sharp's  the  word,  my  dear  boy — -never  mind  !" 

"  In  what  way  do  you  mean?  In  the  rouge  way?"  said 
Steerforth. 

"  Put  this  and  that  together,  my  tender  pupil,"  returned 
the  wary  Mowcher,  touching  her  nose,  "work  it  by  the 
rule  of  secrets  in  all  trades,  and  the  product  will  give  you 
the  desired  result.  I  say  /  do  a  little  in  that  way  myself. 
One  dowager,  she  calls  it  lip-salve.  Another,  she  calls  it 
gloves..  Another,  she  calls  it  tucker-edging.  Another,  she 
calls  it  a  fan.  /  call  it  whatever  they  call  it.  I  supply  it  for 
'em,  but  we  keep  up  the  trick  so,  to  one  another,  and  make 
believe  with  such  a  face,  that  they'd  as  soon  think  of  laying 


330  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

it  on  before  a  whole  drawing-room  as  before  me.  And  when 
I  wait  upon  'em,  they'll  say  to  me  sometimes — with  it  on — 
thick,  and  no  mistake — *  How  am  I  looking,  Mowcher?  Am 
I  pale?'  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  Isn't  that  refreshing,  my  young 
friend?" 

I  never  did  in  my  days  behold  anything  like  Mowcher  as 
she  stood  upon  the  dining-table,  intensely  enjoying  this 
refreshment,  rubbing  busily  at  Steerforth's  head,  and  wink- 
ing at  me  over  it. 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "  Such  things  are  not  much  in  demand 
hereabouts.  That  sets  me  off  again!  I  haven't  seen  a 
pretty  woman  since  I've  been  here,  Jemmy." 

"  No?"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Not  the  ghost  of  one,"  replied  Miss  Mowcher. 

*'  We  could  show  her  the  substance  of  one,  I  think?"  said 
Steerforth,  addressing  his  eyes  to  mine.     "  Eh,  Daisy?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  Aha?"  cried  the  little  creature,  glancing  sharply  at  my 
face  and  then  peeping  round  at  Steerforth's.     "  Umph?" 

The  first  exclamation  sounded  like  a  question  put  to  both 
of  us,  and  the  second  like  a  question  put  to  Steerforth  only. 
She  seemed  to  have  found  no  answer  to  either,  but  contin- 
ued to  rub,  with  her  head  on  one  side  and  her  eye  turned 
up,  as  if  she  were  looking  for  an  answer  in  the  air,  and  were 
confident  of  its  appearing  presently. 

"A  sister  of  yours,  Mr.  Copperfield?"  she  cried,  after  a 
pause,  and  still  keeping  the  same  look  out.     "Aye,  aye?" 

"  No,"  said  Steerforth,  before  I  could  reply.  "  Nothing 
of  the  sort.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Copperfield  used — or 
I  am  much  mistaken — to  have   a  great  admiration  for  her." 

"  Why,  hasn't  he  now?"  returned  Miss  Mowcher.  "  Is  he 
fickle?  oh,  for  shame!  Did  he  sip  every  flower,  and  change 
every  hour,  until  Polly  his  passion  requited? — Is  her  name 
Polly?" 

The  Elfin  suddenness  with  which  she  pounced  upon  me 
with  this  question,  and  a  searching  look,  quite  disconcerted 
me  for  a  moment. 

"  No,  Miss  Mowcher,"  I  replied.     "  Her  name  is  Emily." 

"  Aha?"  she  cried,  exactly  as  before.  "  Umph?  What  a 
rattle  I  am!     Mr.  Copperfield,  ain't  I  volatile?" 

Her  tone  and  look  implied  something  that  was  not  agree- 
able to  me  in  connexion  with  the  subject.  So  I  said,  in  a 
graver  manner  than  any  of  us  had  yet  assumed: 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


^31 


**  She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  pretty.  She  is  engaged  to  be 
married  to  a  most  worthy  and  deserving  man  in  her  own 
station  of  Hfe.  I  esteem  her  for  her  good  sense,  as  much  as 
,1  admire  her  for  her  good  looks." 

"Well  said!"  cried  Steerforth.  "  Hear,  hear,  hear!  Now 
1*11  quench  the  curiosity  of  this  little  Fatima,  my  dear  Daisy, 
by  leaving  her  nothing  to  guess  at.  She  is  at  present  ap- 
prenticed, Miss  Mowcher,  or  articled,  or  whatever  it  may 
be,  to  Omer  and  Joram,  haberdashers,  milliners,  and  so 
forth,  in  this  town.  Do  you  observe?  Omer  and  Joram. 
The  promise  of  which  my  friend  has  spoken,  is  made  and 
entered  into  with  her  cousin;  Christian  name,  Ham;  surn 
name,  Peggotty;  occupation,  boat-builder;  also  of  this  town. 
She  lives  with  a  relative;  Christian  name,  unknown;  sur- 
name, Peggotty;  occupation,  seafaring;  also  of  this  town. 
She  is  the  prettiest  and  most  engaging  little  fairy  in  the 
world.  I  admire  her — as  my  friend  does — exceedingly.  If 
it  were  not  that  I  might  appear  to  disparage  her  intended, 
which  I  know  my  friend  would  not  like,  I  would  add,  that  to 
me  she  seems  to  be  throwing  herself  away;  that  I  am  sure  she 
might  do  better;  and  that  I  swear  she  was  born  to  be  a  lady." 

Miss  Mowcher  listened  to  these  words,  which  were  very 
slowly  and  distinctly  spoken,  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
and  her  eye  in  the  air  as  if  she  were  still  looking  for  that 
answer.  When  he  ceased,  she  became  brisk  again  in  an  in- 
stant, and  rattled  away  with  surprising  volubility. 

"  Oh  !  And  that's  all  about  it,  is  it  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
trimming  his  whiskers  with  a  little  restless  pair  of  scissors, 
that  went  glancing  round  his  head  in  all  directions.  "  Very 
well;  ^'^^^  well!  quite  a  long  story.  Ought  to  end,  *and 
they  lived  happy  ever  afterwards;'  oughtn't  it?  Ah  !  What's 
that  game  at  forfeits  ?  I  love  my  love  with  an  E,  because 
she's  enticing;  I  hate  her  with  an  E,  because  she's  engaged. 
I  took  her  to  the  sign  of  the  exquisite,  and  treated  her  with 
an  elopement,  her  name's  Emily  and  she  lives  in  the  east  ? 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  Mr.  Copperfield,  ain't  I  volatile?" 

Merely  looking  at  me  with  extravagant  slyness,  and  not 
waiting  for  any  reply,  she  continued,  without  drawing 
breath  : 

"  There!  If  ever  any  scapegrace  was  trimmed  and  touched 
up  to  perfection,  you  are,  Steerforth.  If  I  understand  any 
noddle  in  the  world,  I  understand  yours.  Do  you  hear  me 
when  I  tell  you  that,  my  darling  ?     I  understand  yours," 


332  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

peeping  down  into  his  face.  "  Now  you  may  mizzle,  Jemmy 
(as  we  say  at  Court),  and  if  Mr.  Copperfield  will  take  the 
chair  I'll  operate  on  him." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Daisy  ?"  inquired  Steerforth,  laughing 
and  resigning  his  seat.     "  Will  you  be  improved  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Mowcher,  not  this  evening." 

"  Don't  say  no,"  returned  the  little  woman,  looking  at  me 
with  the  aspect  of  a  connoisseur;  "  a  little  bit  more  eye- 
brow r 

"  Thank  you,"  I  returned,  "  some  other  time." 

"  Have  it  carried  half  a  quarter  of  an  inch  towards  the 
temple,"  said  Miss  Mowcher.  "  We  can  do  it  in  a  fortnight." 

"  No,  I  thank  you.     Not  at  present." 

"  Go  in  for  a  tip,"  she  urged.  "  No  ?  Let's  get  the 
scaffolding  up,  then,  for  a  pair  of  whiskers.     Come  !" 

I  could  not  help  blushing  as  I  decHned,  for  I  felt  we  were 
on  my  weak  point,  now.  But  Miss  Mowcher,  finding  that  I 
was  not  at  present  disposed  for  any  decoration  within  the 
range  of  her  art,  and  that  I  was,  for  the  time  being,  proof 
against  the  blandishments  of  the  small  bottle  which  she  held 
up  before  one  eye  to  enforce  her  persuasions,  said  we  would 
make  a  beginning  on  an  early  day,  and  requested  the  aid  of 
my  hand  to  descend  from  her  elevated  station.  Thus  as- 
sisted, she  skipped  down  with  much  agility,  and  began  to 
tie  her  double  chin  into  her  bonnet. 

"  The  fee,"  said  Steerforth,  "  is " 

*'  Five  bob,"  replied  Miss  Mowcher,  "  and  dirt-cheap,  my 
chicken.     Ain't  I  volatile,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?" 

I  replied  politely  :  "  Not  at  all."  But  I  thought  she  was 
rather  so,  when  she  tossed  up  his  two  half-crowns  like  a 
goblin  pieman,  caught  them,  dropped  them  in  her  pocket, 
and  gave  it  a  loud  slap. 

"  That's  the  Till  !'*  observed  Miss  Mowcher,  standing  at 
the  chair  again,  and  replacing  in  the  bag  the  miscellaneous 
collection  of  little  objects  she  had  emptied  out  of  it. 
**  Have  I  got  all  my  traps  ?  It  seems  so.  It  won't  do  to  be 
like  long  Ned  Beadwood,  when  they  took  him  to  church  *  to 
marry  him  to  somebody,'  as  he  says,  and  left  the  bride  be- 
hind. Ha!  ha!  ha!  A  wicked  rascal,  Ned,  but  droll !  Now, 
I  know  I'm  going  to  break  your  hearts,  but  I  am  forced  to 
leave  you.  You  must  call  up  all  your  fortitude,  and  try  to 
bear  it.  Good  by,  Mr.  Copperfield  !  Take  care  of  your- 
self, Jockey  o'f  Norfolk  1     How  I  Aave  been  rattling  on  I 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  333 

It's  all  the  fault  of  you  two  wretches.  /  forgive  you  !  *  Bob 
swore  !' — as  the  Englishman  said  for  '  Good  night,'  when  he 
first  learnt  French,  and  thought  it  so  like  English.  *  Bob 
swore,'  my  ducks  !" 

With  the  bag  slung  over  her  arm,  and  rattling  as  she 
waddled  away,  she  waddled  to  the  door;  where  she  stopped 
to  inquire  if  she  should  leave  us  a  lock  of  her  hair.  "  Ain't 
I  volatile  ?"  she  added,  as  a  commentary  on  this  offer,  and, 
with  her  finger  on  her  nose,  departed. 

Steerforth  laughed  to  that  degree,  that  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  help  laughing  too;  though  I  am  not  sure  I  should 
have  done  so,  but  for  this  inducement.  When  we  had  had 
our  laugh  quite  out,  which  was  after  some  time,  he  told  me 
that  Miss  Mowcher  had  quite  an  extensive  connection,  and 
made  herself  useful  to  a  variety  of  people  in  a  variety  of 
ways.  Some  people  trifled  with  her  as  a  mere  oddity,  he 
said;  but  she  was  as  shrewdly  and  sharply  observant  as  any 
one  he  knew,  and  as  long-headed  as  she  was  short-armed. 
He  told  me  that  what  she  had  said  of  being  here,  and  there, 
and  everywhere,  was  true  enough;  for  she  made  Httle  darts 
into  the  provinces,  and  seemed  to  pick  up  customers  every- 
where, and  to  know  everybody.  I  asked  him  what  her  dis- 
position was:  whether  it  was  at  all  mischievous,  and  if  her 
sympathies  were  generally  on  the  right  side  of  things  :  but, 
not  succeeding  in  attracting  his  attention  to  these  ques- 
tions after  two  or  three  attempts,  I  forbore  or  forgot  to  re- 
peat them.  He  told  me  instead,  with  much  rapidity,  a  good 
deal  about  her  skill,  and  her  profits;  and  about  her  being  a 
scientific  cupper,  if  I  should  ever  have  occasion  for  her 
services  in  that  capacity. 

.She  was  the  principal  theme  of  our  conversation  during 
the  evening:  and  when  we  parted  for  the  night  Steerforth 
called  after  me  over  the  bannisters,  "  Bob  swore  !"  as  I  went 
down  stairs. 

I  was  surprised  when  I  came  to  Mr.  Barkis's  house  to  find 
Ham  walking  up  and  down  in  front  of  it,  and  still  more 
surprised  to  learn  from  him  that  little  Em'ly  was  inside.  I 
naturally  inquired  why  he  was  not  there  too,  instead  of 
pacing  the  street  by  himself  ? 

"  Why,  you  sec,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  rejoined,  in  a  hesitating 
manner,      Em'ly,  she's  talking  to  some  'un  in  here." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  I  smiling,  *'  th^t  that  was 
a  reason  for  you  being  in  here  too,  Ham." 


334  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Well,  Mas'r  Davy,  in  a  general  way,  so  't  would  be," 
he  returned;  "  but  look'ee  here,  Mas'r  Davy,"  lowering  his 
voice,  and  speaking  very  gravely.  "  It's  a  young  woman, 
sir — a  young  woman  that  Em'ly  knowed  once,  and  doen't 
ought  to  know  no  more." 

When  I  heard  these  words,  a  light  began  to  fall  upon  the 
figure  I  had  seen  following  them,  some  hours  ago. 

"  It's  a  poor  wurem,  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Ham,  "  as  is  trod 
under  foot  by  all  the  town.  Up  street  and  down  street. 
The  mowld  o'  the  church-yard  don't  hold  any  that  the  folk 
shrink  away  from  more." 

*'  Did  I  see  her  to-night,  Ham,  on  the  sands,  after  we  met 
you  ?" 

"  Keeping  us  in  sight  ?"  said  Ham.  "  It's  like  you  did, 
Mas'r  Davy.  Not  that  I  know'd,  then,  she  was  theer,  sir, 
but  along  of  her  creeping  soon  afterwards  under  Em'ly's  little 
winder,  when  she  see  the  light  come,  and  whisp'ring  '  Em'ly, 
Em'ly,  for  Christ's  sake  have  a  woman's  heart  towards  me. 
I  was  once  like  you  !'  Those  was  solemn  words,  Mas'r 
Davy,  for  to  hear  !" 

**  They  were  indeed,  Ham.     What  did  Em'ly  do  ?" 

"  Says  Em'ly,  *  Martha,  is  it  you  ?  Oh,  Martha,  can  it  be 
you  ?' — for  they  had  sat  at  work  together,  many  a  day,  at 
Mr.  Omer's." 

**I  recollect  her  now  !"  cried  I,  recalling  one  of  the  two 
girls  I  had  seen  when  I  first  went  there.  "  I  recollect  her 
quite  well  !" 

"  Martha  Endell,"  said  Ham.  "  Two  or  three  years  older 
than  Em'ly,  but  was  at  the  school  with  her." 

"I  never  heard  her  name,"  said  I.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
interrupt  you." 

"  For  the  matter  o'  that,  Mas'r  Davy,"  replied  Ham,  "  all's 
told  a'most  in  them  words,  *  Em'ly,  Em'ly,  for  Christ's  sake 
have  a  woman's  heart  towards  me.  I  was  once  like  you  !' 
She  wanted  to  speak  to  Em'ly.  Em'ly  couldn't  speak  to 
her  theer,  for  her  loving  uncle  was  come  home,  and  he 
wouldn't — no  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Ham,  with  great  earnest- 
ness, "  he  couldn't,  kind-naturd,  tender-hearted  as  he  is,  see 
them  two  together,  side  by  side,  for  all  the  treasures  that's 
wrecked  in  the  sea." 

I  felt  how  true  this  was.  I  knew  it  on  the  instant,  quite 
as  well  as  Ham. 

"  3p  Em*ly  writes  in  pencil  on  a  bit  of  paper,"  he  pursued, 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  335 

**  and  gives  it  to  her  out  o'  winder  to  bring  here.  '  Show 
that,'  she  says,  *  to  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Barkis,  and  she'll  set  you 
down  by  her  fire,  for  the  love  of  me,  till  uncle  is  gone  out, 
and  I  can  come.'  By-and-by  she  tells  me  what  I  tells  you, 
Mas'r  Davy,  and  asks  me  to  bring  her.  What  can  I  do  ? 
She  doen't  ought  to  know  any  such,  but  I  can't  deny  her, 
when  the  tears  is  on  her  face." 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  shaggy  jacket,  and 
took  out  with  great  care  a  pretty  little  purse. 

"  And  if  I  could  deny  her  when  the  tears  was  on  her  face, 
Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Ham,  tenderly  adjusting  it  on  the  rough 
palm  of  his  hand,  "  how  could  I  deny  her  when  she  give  me 
this  to  carry  for  her — knowing  what  she  brought  it  for  ? 
Such  a  toy  as  it  is  !"  said  Ham,  thoughtfully  looking  on  it. 
"  With  such  a  little  money  in  it,  Em'ly  my  dear  !" 

I  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand  when  he  had  put  it  away 
again — for  that  was  more  satisfactory  to  me  than  saying  any- 
thing— and  we  walked  up  and  down  for  a  minute  or  two,  in 
silence.  The  door  opened  then,  and  Peggotty  appeared, 
beckoning  to  Ham  to  come  in.  I  would  have  kept  away, 
but  she  came  after  me,  entreating  me  to  come  in  too.  Even 
then,  I  would  have  avoided  the  room  where  they  all  were, 
but  for  its  being  the  neat-tiled  kitchen  1  have  mentioned 
more  than  once.  The  door  opening  immediately  into  it,  I 
found  myself  among  them,  before  I  considered  whither  I 
was  going. 

The  girl — the  same  I  had  seen  upon  the  sands — was  near 
the  fire.  She  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  her  head  and 
one  arm  lying  on  a  chair.  I  fancied,  from  the  disposition 
of  her  figure,  that  Em'ly  had  but  newly  risen  from  the  chair, 
and  that  the  forlorn  head  might  perhaps  have  been  lying  on 
her  lap.  I  saw  but  little  of  the  girl's  face,  over  which  her 
hair  fell  loose  and  scattered,  as  if  she  had  been  disordering 
it  with  her  own  hands;  but  I  saw  that  she  was  young,  and 
of  a  fair  complexion.  Peggotty  had  been  crying.  So  had 
little  Em'ly.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  when  we  first  went  in; 
and  the  Dutch  clock  by  the  dresser  seemed,  in  the  silence, 
to  tick  twice  as  loud  as  usual. 

Etn'ly  spoke  first. 

"  Martha  wants,"  she  said  to  Ham,  "  to  go  to  Londoa" 

"  Why  to  London  ?"  returned  Ham. 

He  stood  between  them,  looking  on  the  prostrate  girl  with 
a  mixture  of  compassion  for  her,  and  of  jealousy  of  her  hold- 


336  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ing  any  companionship  with  her  whom  he  loved  so  well, 
which  I  have  always  remembered  distinctly.  They  both 
spoke  as  if  she  were  ill;  in  a  soft,  suppressed  tone  that  was 
plainly  heard,  although  it  hardly  rose  above  a  whisper. 

"  Better  there  than  here,"  said  a  third  voice  aloud — Mar- 
tha's, though  she  did  not  move.  "  No  one  knows  me  there. 
Everybody  knows  me  here." 

"  What  will  she  do  there  ?"  inquired  Ham. 

She  lifted  up  her  head,  and  looked  darkly  round  at  him 
for  a  moment;  then  laid  it  down  again,  and  curved  her  right 
arm  about  her  neck,  as  a  woman  in  a  fever,  or  in  an  agony 
of  pain  from  a  shot,  might  twist  herself. 

"  She  will  try  to  do  well,"  said  little  Em'ly.  "  You  don't 
know  what  she  has  said  to  us.     Does  he — do  they — aunt  ?" 

Peggotty  shook  her  head  compassionately. 

"  I'll  try,"  said  Martha,  "  if  you'll  help  me  away.  I  never 
can  do  worse  than  I  have  done  here.  I  may  do  better. 
Oh  !"  with  a  dreadful  shiver,  "  take  me  out  of  these  streets, 
where  the  whole  town  knows  me  from  a  child  !" 

As  Em'ly  held  out  her  hand  to  Ham,  I  saw  him  put  in  it 
a  little  canvas  bag.  She  took  it,  as  if  she  thought  it  were 
her  purse,  and  made  a  step  or  two  forward;  but  finding  her 
mistake,  came  back  to  where  he  had  retired  near  me,  and 
showed  it  to  him. 

"  It's  all  yourn,  Em'ly,"  I  could  hear  him  say.  "  I  haven't 
nowt  in  all  the  wureld  that  ain't  yourn,  my  dear.  It  ain't  of 
no  delight  to  me,  except  for  you  !" 

The  tears  rose  freshly  in  her  eyes,  but  she  turned  away, 
and  went  to  Martha.  What  she  gave  her,  I  don't  know.  I 
saw  her  stooping  over  her,  and  putting  money  in  her  bosom. 
She  whispered  something,  and  asked  was  that  enough  ? 
"  More  than  enough,"  the  other  said,  and  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

Then  Martha  arose,  and  gathering  her  shawl  about  her, 
covering  her  face  with  it,  and  weeping  aloud,  went  slowly  to 
the  door.  She  stopped  a  moment  before  going  out,  as  if 
she  would  have  uttered  something  or  turned  back;  but  no 
word  passed  her  lips.  Making  the  same  low,  dreary, 
wretched  moaning  in  her  shawl,  she  went  away. 

As  the  door  closed,  little  Em'ly  looked  at  us  three  in  a 
hurried  manner,  and  then  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  fell 
to  sobbing. 

^*Poen't,  Em'ly!"  said  Ham,  tapping  her  gently  on  the 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  337 

shoulder.  "  Doen't,  my  dear  !  You  doen't  ought  to  cry  so, 
pretty!" 

"  Oh,  Ham  !"  she  exclaimed,  still  weeping  pitifully,  *'  I 
am  not  as  good  a  girl  as  I  ought  to  be  !  I  know  I  have  not 
the  thankful  heart,  sometimes,  I  ought  to  have  !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  have,  I'm  sure,"  said  Ham. 

"  No!  no!  no!"  cried  little  Em'ly,  sobbing,  and  shaking 
her  head.  "  I  am  not  so  good  a  girl  as  I  ought  to  be.  Not 
near!  not  near!"  and  still  she  cried,  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

-  "  I  try  your  love  too  much.  I  know  I  do!"  she  sobbed. 
"  I'm  often  cross  to  you,  and  changeable  with  you,  when 
I  ought  to  be  far  different.  You  are  never  so  to  me. 
Why  am  I  ever  so  to  you,  when  I  should  think  of  noth- 
ing but  how  to  be  grateful,  and  to  make  you  happy!" 

"  You  always  make  me  so,"  said  Ham,  '*  my  dear!  I  am 
happy  in  the  sight  of  you.  I  am  happy  all  day  long,  in  the 
thoughts  of  you!" 

"Ah!  that's  not  enough!"  she  cried.  "That  is  because 
you  are  good;  not  because  I  am!  Oh,  my  dear,  it  might 
have  been  a  better  fortune  for  you,  if  you  had  been  fond  of 
some  one  else — of  some  one  steadier  and  much  worthier 
than  me,  who  was  all  bound  up  in  you,  and  never  vain  and 
changeable  like  me!" 

"  Poor  little  tender-heart,"  said  Ham,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Martha  has  overset  her,  altogether." 

"  Please,  aunt,"  sobbed  Em'ly,  "  come  here,  and  let  me 
lay  my  head  upon  you.  Oh,  I  am  very  miserable  to-night, 
aunt!  Oh,  I  am  not  as  good  a  girl  as.  I  ought  to  be.  I  am 
not,  I  know!" 

Peggotty  had  hastened  to  the  chair  before  the  fire.  Em'ly, 
with  her  arms  around  her  neck,  kneeled  by  her,  looking  up 
most  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"  Oh,  pray,  aunt,  try  to  help  me!  Ham,  dear,  try  to  help 
me!  Mr.  David,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  do,  please,  try  to 
help  me!  I  want  to  be  a  better  girl  than  I  am.  I  want  to 
feel  a  hundred  times  more  thankful  than  I  do.  I  want  to 
feel  more,  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  be  the  wife  of  a  good 
man,  and  to  lead  a  peaceful  life.  Oh  me,  oh  me!  Oh,  my 
heart,  my  heart!" 

She  dropped  her  face  on  my  old  nurse*s  breast,  and,  ceas- 
ing this  supplication,  which  in  its  agony  and  grief  was  half  a 
woman's,  half  a  child's,  as  all  her  «\ani^er  was  (being,  in  that. 


:^38  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

more  natural,  and  better  suited  to  her  beauty,  as  I  thought, 
than  any  other  manner  could  have  been),  wept  silently,  while 
my  old  nurse  hushed  her  like  an  infant. 

She  got  calmer  by  degrees,  and  then  we  soothed  her;  now 
talking  encouragingly,  and  now  jesting  a  little  with  her,  un- 
til she  began  to  raise  her  head  and  speak  to  us.  So  we  got 
on,  until  she  was  able  to  smile,  and  then  to  laugh,  and  then 
to  sit  up,  half  ashamed;  while  Peggotty  recalled  her  stray 
ringlets,  dried  her  eyes,  and  made  her  neat  again,  lest  her 
uncle  should  wonder,  when  she  got  home,  why  his  darling 
had  been  crying. 

I  saw  her  do,  that  night,  what  I  had  never  seen  her  do 
before.  I  saw  her  innocently  kiss  her  chosen  husband  on 
the  cheek,  and  creep  close  to  his  blufif  form  as  if  it  were  her 
best  support.  When  they  went  away  together,  in  the  wan- 
ing moonlight,  and  I  looked  after  them,  comparing  their 
departure  in  my  mind  with  Martha's,  I  saw  that  she  held  his 
arm  with  both  her  hands,  and  still  kept  close  to  him. 


CHAPTER    XXIIL 

I   CORROBOflATE   MR.  DICK,  AND   CHOOSE    A    PROFESSION. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I  thought  very  much  of 
little  Em'ly,  and  her  emotion  last  night,  after  Martha  had  left. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  come  into  the  knowledge  of  those  do- 
mestic weaknesses  and  tendernesses  in  a  sacred  confidence, 
and  that  to  disclose  them,  even  to  Steerforth,  would  be  wrong. 
I  had  no  gentler  feeling  towards  any  one  than  towards 
the  pretty  creature  who  had  been  my  playmate,  and  whom 
I  have  always  been  persuaded,  and  shall  always  be  per- 
suaded, to  my  dying  day,  I  then  devotedly  loved.  The 
repetition  to  any  ears — even  to  Steerforth's — of  what  she 
had  been  unable  to  repress  when  her  heart  lay  open  to 
me  by  an  accident,  I  felt  would  be  a  rough  deed,  un- 
worthy of  myself,  unworthy  of  the  light  of  our  pure 
childhood,  which  I  always  saw  encircling  her  head.  I 
made  a  resolution,  therefore,  to  keep  it  in  my  own  breast; 
and  there  it  gave  her  image  a  new  grace. 

While  we  were  at  breakfast,  a  letter  was  delivered  to  me 
from  my  ^v^nt     As  it  cpntained  matter  on  which  I  thought 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  339 

Steerforth  could  advise  me  as  well  as  any  one,  and  on  which 
I  knew  I  should  be  delighted  to  consult  him,  I  resolved  to 
make  it  a  subject  of  discussion  on  our  journey  home.  For 
the  present  we  had  enough  to  do,  in  taking  leave  of  all  our 
friends.  Mr.  Barkis  was  far  from  being  the  last  among  them, 
in  his  regret  at  our  departure;  and  I  believe  would  even 
have  opened  the  box  again,  and  sacrificed  another  guinea,  if 
it  would  have  kept  us  eight-and-forty  hours  in  Yarmouth. 
Peggotty,  and  all  her  family,  were  full  of  grief  at  our  going. 
The  whole  house  of  Omer  and  Joram  turned  out  to  bid  us 
good  by,  and  there  were  so  many  seafaring  volunteers  in 
attendance  on  Steerforth,  when  our  portmanteaus  went  to 
the  coach,  that  if  we  had  had  the  baggage  of  a  regiment  with 
us,  we  should  hardly  have  wanted  porters  to  carry  it. 
In  a  word,  we  departed  to  the  regret  and  admiration  of 
all  concerned,  and  left  a  great  many  people  very  sorry 
behind  us. 

"  Do  you  stay  long  here,  Littimer  ?"  said  I,  as  he  stood 
waiting  to  see  the  coach  start. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied;  "probably  not  very  long,  sir." 

"  He  can  hardly  say  just  now,"  observed  Steerforth,  care- 
lessly.    "  He  knows  what  he  has  to  do,  and  he'll  do  it." 

"  That  I  am  sure  he  will,"  said  I. 

Littimer  touched  his  hat  in  acknowledgment  of  my  good 
opinion,  and  I  felt  about  eight  years  old.  He  touched  it  once 
more,  wishing  us  a  good  journey,  and  we  left  him  standing 
on  the  pavement,  as  respectable  a  mystery  as  any  pyramid 
in  Egypt. 

•For  some  little  time  we  held  no  conversation,  Steerforth 
being  unusually  silent,  and  I  being  sufficiently  engaged  in 
wondering,  within  myself,  when  I  should  see  the  old  places 
again,  and  what  new  changes  might  happen  to  me  or  them 
in  the  meanwhile.  At  length  Steerforth,  becoming  gay  and 
talkative  in  a  moment,  as  he  could  become  anything  he  liked 
at  any  moment,  pulled  me  by  the  arm: 

"  Find  a  voice,  David.  What  about  the  letter  you  were 
speaking  of  at  breakfast  ?" 

"Oh  !"  said  I,  taking  it  out  of  my  pocket.  "  It  is  from  my 
aunt." 

"  And  what  does  she  say  requiring  consideration  ?" 

"  Why,  she  reminds  me,  Steerforth,"  said  I,  "  that  I  came 
out  on  this  expedition  to  look  about  me,  and  to  think  a  little." 

**  Which*  of  course,  you  have  done  .''" 


340  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Indeed,  I  can't  say  I  have,  particularly.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  am  afraid  I  had  forgotten  it.** 

"Well  !  look  about  you  now,  and  make  up  for  your  neg- 
ligence," said  Steerforth.  "  Look  to  the  right,  and  you'll 
see  a  flat  country,  with  a  good  deal  of  marsh  in  it;  look  to 
the  left,  and  you'll  see  the  same.  Look  to  the  front,  and  you'll 
find  no  difference;  look  to  the  rear,  and  there  it  is  still," 

I  laughed,  and  replied  that  I  saw  no  suitable  profession  in 
the  whole  prospect  ;  which  was  perhaps  to  be  attributed  to 
its  flatness. 

"  What  says  our  aunt  on  the  subject  ?"  inquired  Steerforth, 
glancing  at  the  letter  in  my  hand.  "  Does  she  suggest  any- 
thing ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  I.  "  She  asks  me,  here,  if  I  think  I  should 
like  to  be  a  proctor  ?    What  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Steerforth,  coolly.  "You 
may  as  well  do  that  as  anything  else,  I  suppose." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  again,  at  his  balancing  all  call- 
ings and  professions  so  equally,  and  I  told  him  so. 

"What  is  a  proctor,  Steerforth,"  said  I. 

"Why,  he  is  a  sort  of  monkish  attorney,"  said  Steerforth. 
"  He  is,  to  some  faded  courts  held  in  Doctors'  Commons — 
a  lazy  old  nook  near  St.  Paul's  Churchyard — what  solicitors 
are  to  the  courts  of  law  and  equity.  He  is  a  functionary 
whose  existence,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  would  have 
terminated  about  two  hundred  years  ago.  I  can  tell  you  best 
what  he  is,  by  telling  you  what  Doctors'  Commons  is.  It's 
a  little  out-of-the-way  place,  where  they  administer  what  is 
called  ecclesiastical  law,  and  play  all  kinds  of  tricks  with 
obsolete  old  monsters  of  acts  of  Parliament,  which  three- 
fourths  of  the  world  know  nothing  about,  and  the  other 
fourth  supposes  to  have  been  dug  up,  in  a  fossil  state,  in  the 
days  of  the  Edwards.  It's  a  place  that  has  an  ancient  mon- 
opoly in  suits  about  people's  wills  and  people's  marriages,  and 
disputes  among  ships  and  boats." 

*  Nonsense,  Steerforth  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  there  is  any  affinity  between  nautical  matters  and 
ecclesiastical  matters  ?" 

"I  don't,  indeed,  my  dear  boy,"  he  returned;  "but  I 
mean  to  say  that  they  are  managed  and  decided  by  the 
same  set  of  people,  down  in  that  same  Doctors'  Commons. 
You  shall  go  there  one  day,  and  find  them  blundering 
through   half   the   nautical   terms   in  Young's  Dictionary, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  341 

apropos  of  the  *  Nancy'  having  run  down  the  *  Sarah  Jane,' 
or  Mr.  Peggotty  and  the  Yarmouth  boatmen  having  put  off 
in  a  gale  of  wind  with  an  anchor  and  cable  to  the  '  Nelson  * 
Indiaman  in  distress;  and  you  shall  go  there  another  day, 
and  find  them  deep  in  the  evidence,  pro  and  con,  respect- 
ing a  clergyman  who  has  misbehaved  himself;  and  you  shall 
find  the  judge  in  the  nautical  case  the  advocate  in  the 
clergyman  case,  or  contrariwise.  They  are  like  actors;  now 
a  man's  judge,  and  now  he  is  not  a  judge;  now  he's  one 
thing,  now  he's  another;  now  he's  something  else,  change 
and  change  about;  but  it's  always  a  very  pleasant,  profit- 
able, little  affair  of  private  theatricals,  presented  to  an  un- 
commonly select  audience." 

"  But  advocates  and  proctors  are  not  one  and  the  same?" 
said  I,  a  little  puzzled.     "Are  they?" 

"  No,"  returned  Steerforth,  "  the  advocates  are  civilians — 
men  who  have  taken  a  doctor's  degree  at  college — which  is 
the  first  reason  of  my  knowing  anything  about  it.  The 
proctors  employ  the  advocates.  Both  get  very  comfortable 
fees,  and  altogether  they  make  a  mighty  snug  little  party. 
On  the  whole,  I  would  recommend  you  to  take  to  Doctors' 
Commons  kindly,  David.  They  plume  themselves  on 
their  gentility  there,  I  can  tell  you,  if  that's  any  satisfac- 
tion." 

I  made  allowance  for  Steerforth's  light  way  of  treating 
the  subject,  and,  considering  it  with  reference  to  the  staid 
air  of  gravity  and  antiquity  which  I  associated  with  that 
"  lazy  old  nook  near  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,"  did  not  feel 
indisposed  towards  my  aunt's  suggestion,  which  she  left  to 
my  free  decision,  making  no  scruple  of  telling  me  that  it 
had  occurred  to  her,  on  her  lately  visiting  her  own  proctor 
in  Doctors'Commons  for  the  purpose  of  settling  her  will  in 
my  favor. 

"  That's  a  laudable  proceeding  on  the  part  of  our  aunt,  at 
all  events,"  said  Steerforth,  when  I  mentioned  it;  "and  one 
deserving  of  all  encouragement.  Daisy,  my  advice  is  that 
you  take  kindly  to  Doctors'  Commons." 

I  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so.  I  then  told  Steer- 
forth that  my  aunt  was  in  town  awaiting  me  (as  I  found 
from  her  letter)  and  that  she  had  taken  lodgings  for  a  week 
at  a  kind  of  private  hotel  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where 
there  was  a  stone  staircase,  and  a  cpnvenient  door  in  the 
roof;  my  aunt  being  firmly  persuaded  that  every  house  in 
London  was  going  to  be  burnt  down  every  night. 


342  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

^  We  achieved  the  rest  of  our  journey  pleasantly,  some- 
times recurring  to  Doctors*  Commons,  and  anticipating  the 
distant  days  when  I  should  be  a  proctor  there,  which  Steer- 
forth  pictured  in  a  variety  of  humorous  and  whimsical 
lights,  that  made  us  both  merry.  When  we  came  to  our 
journey's  end,  he  went  home,  engaging  to  call  upon  me 
next  day  but  one,  and  I  drove  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
where  I  found  my  aunt  up,  and  waiting  supper. 

If  I  had  been  round  the  world  since  we  parted,  we  could 
hardly  have  been  better  pleased  to  meet  again.  My  aunt 
cried  outright  as  she  embraced  me;  and  said,  pretending 
to  laugh,  that  if  my  poor  mother  had  been  alive,  that 
silly  little  creature  would  have  shed  tears,  she  had  no 
doubt. 

"  So  you  have  left  Mr.  Dick  behind,  aunt?"  said  I.  "  I 
am  sorry  for  that.     Ah,  Janet,  how  do  you  do?" 

As  Janet  courtesied,  hoping  I  was  well,  I  observed  my 
aunt's  visage  lengthen  very  much. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  it,  too,"  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her 
nose.  "  I  have  had  no  peace  of  mind,  Trot,  since  I  have 
been  here." 

Before  I  could  ask  why,  she  told  me. 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  my  aunt;  laying  her  hand  with 
melancholy  firmness  on  the  table,  "  that  Dick's  character  is 
not  a  character  to  keep  the  donkeys  off.  I  am  confident  he 
wants  strength  of  purpose.  I  ought  to  have  left  Janet  at 
home,  instead,  and  then  my  mind  might  perhaps  have  been 
at  ease.  If  ever  there  was  a  donkey  trespassing  on  my 
green,"  said  my  aunt,  with  emphasis,  "there  was  one  this 
afternoon  at  four  o'clock.  A  cold  feeling  came  over  me 
from  head  to  foot,  and  I  know  it  was  a  donkey!" 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  on  this  point,  but  she  rejected  con- 
solation. 

"It  was  a  donkey,"  said  my  aunt;  "and  it  was  the  one 
with  the  stumpy  tail  which  that  Murdering  sister  of  a  woman 
rode,  when  she  came  to  my  house."  This  had  been,  ever 
since,  the  only  name  my  aunt  knew  for  Miss  Murdstone. 
"  If  there  is  any  donkey  in  Dover  whose  audacity  it  is  hard- 
er to  me  to  bear  than  another's,  that,"  said  my  aunt,  strik- 
ing the  table,  "is  the  animal!" 

Janet  ventured  to  suggest  that  my  aunt  might  be  disturb- 
ing herself  unnecessarily,  and  that  she  believed  the  donkey 
in  question  was  then  engaged  in  the  sand  and  gravel  line  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  343 

business,  and  was  not  available  for  purposes  of  trespass. 
But  my  aunt  wouldn't  hear  it. 

Supper  was  comfortably  served  and  hot,  though  my  aunt's 
rooms  were  very  high  up — whether  that  she  might  have 
mofe  stone  stairs  for  her  money,  or  might  be  nearer  to* the 
door  in  the  roof,  I  don't  know — and  consisted  of  a  roast  fowl, 
a  steak,  and  some  vegetables,  to  all  of  which  I  did  ample 
justice,  and  which  were  all  excellent.  But  my  aunt  had  her 
own  ideas  concerning  London  provision,  and  ate  but  little. 

"  I  suppose  this  unfortunate  fowl  was  born  and  brought 
lip  in  a  cellar,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  never  took  the  air  ex- 
cept on  a  hackney  coach-stand.  I  hope  the  steak  may  be 
beef,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  Nothing's  genuine  in  this  place, 
hi  my  opinion,  but  the  dirt." 

"  Don't  you  think  the  fowl  may  have  come  out  of  the 
country,  aunt  ?"  I  hinted. 

"  Certainly  not,"  returned  my  aunt.  "  It  would  be  no 
pleasure  to  a  London  tradesman  to  sell  anything  which  was 
w^hat  he  pretended  it  was." 

I  did  not  venture  to  controvert  this  opinion,  but  I  made  a 
good  supper,  which  it  greatly  satisfied  her  to  see  me  do. 
when  the  table  was  cleared,  Janet  assisted  her  to  arrange 
her  hair,  to  put  on  her  nightcap,  which  was  of  a  smarter 
construction  than  usual  ("  in  case  of  fire,"  my  aunt  said), 
and  to  fold  her  gown  back  over  her  knees,  these  being  her 
usual  preparations  for  warming  herself  before  going  to  bed. 
I  then  made  her,  according  to  certain  established  regula- 
tions from  which  no  deviation,  however  slight,  could  ever  be 
permitted,  a  glass  of  hot  white  wine  and  water,  and  a  slice  of 
toast  cut  into  long  thin  strips.  With  these  accompaniments 
we  were  left  alone  to  finish  the  evening,  my  aunt  sitting  op- 
posite to  me  drinking  her  wine  and  water;  soaking  her  strips 
of  toast  in  it,  one  by  one,  before  eating  them;  and  looking 
benignantly  on  me,  from  among  the  borders  of  her  night- 
cap. 

"Well,  Trot,"  she  began,  "what  do  you  think  of  the 
proctor  plan?  Or  have  you  not  begun  to  think  about  it 
yet  ?" 

"  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  it,  my  dear  aunt,  and 
I  have  talked  a  good  deal  about  it  with  Steerforth.  I  like 
it  very  much  indeed.     I  like  it  exceedingly." 

"  Come  !"  said  my  aunt.     "  That's  cheering  !" 

"  I  have  only  one  difficulty,  aunt." 


344  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Say  what  it  is,  Trot,"  she  returned. 

"  Why,  I  want  to  ask,  aunt,  as  this  seems,  from  what  I 
understand,  to  be  a  limited  profession,  whether  my  entrance 
into  it  would  not  be  very  expensive  ?" 

"it  will  cost,"  returned  my  aunt,  "to  article  you,  ju^t  a 
thousand  pounds." 

"  Now,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  I,  drawing  my  chair  nearer, 
"  I  am  uneasy  in  my  mind  about  that.  It's  a  large  sum  of 
money.  You  have  expended  a  great  deal  on  my  education, 
and  have  always  been  as  liberal  to  me  in  all  things  as  it  was 
possible  to  be.  You  have  been  the  soul  of  generosity. 
Surely  there  are  some  ways  in  which  I  might  begin  life  with 
hardly  any  outlay,  and  yet  begin  with  a  good  hope  of  get- 
ting on  by  resolution  and  exertion.  Are  you  sure  that  it 
would  not  be  better  to  try  that  course  ?  Are  you  certain 
that  you  can  afford  to  part  with  so  much  money,  and  that  it 
is  right  it  should  be  so  expended?  I  only  ask  you,  my 
second  mother,  to  consider.     Are  you  certain  ?" 

My  aunt  finished  eating  the  piece  of  toast  on  which  she 
was  then  engaged,  looking  me  full  in  the  face  all  the  while; 
and  then  setting  her  glass  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  folding 
her  hands  upon  her  folded  skirts,  replied  as  follows: 

"  Trot,  my  child,  if  I  have  any  object  in  life,  it  is  to  pro- 
vide for  your  being  a  good,  sensible,  and  a  happy  man.  T  am 
bent  upon  it — so  is  Dick.  I  should  like  some  people  that  I 
know  to  hear  Dick's  conversation  on  the  subject.  Its 
sagacity  is  wonderful.  But  no  one  knows  the  resources  of 
that  man's  intellect,  except  myself  !" 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  take  my  hand  between  hers, 
and  went  on: 

"  It's  in  vain,  Trot,  to  recall  the  past,  unless  it  works 
some  influence  upon  the  present.  Perhaps  I  might  have 
been  better  friends  with  your  poor  father.  Perhaps  I  might 
have  been  better  friends  with  that  poor  child  your  mother, 
even  after  your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood  disappointed  me 
When  you  came  to  me,  a  little  runaway  boy,  all  dusty  and 
wayworn,  perhaps  I  thought  so.  From  that  time  until  now, 
Trot,  you  have  ever  been  a  credit  to  me  and  a  pride  and 
pleasure.  I  have  no  other  claim  upon  my  means;  at  least" 
— here  to  my  surprise  she  hesitated,  and  was  confused — 
"  no,  I  have  no  other  claim  upon  my  means — and  you  are 
my  adopted  child.  Only  be  a  loving  child  to  me  in  my  age, 
and  bear  with  my  whims  and  fancies;  and  you  will  do  more 


DATID  COPPERFIELD.  345 

for  an  old  woman  whose  prime  of  life  was  not  so  happy  or 
conciliating  as  it  might  have  been,  than  ever  that  old  woman 
did  for  you." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  my  aunt  refer  to  her  past 
history.  There  was  a  magnanimity  in  her  quiet  way  of 
doing  so,  and  of  dismissing  it,  which  would  have  exalted 
her  in  my  respect  and  affection,  if  any  thing  could. 

"  All  is  agreed  and  understood  between  us  now,  Trot," 
said  my  aunt,  "  and  we  need  talk  of  this  no  more.  Give  me  a 
kiss,  and  we'll  go  to  the  Commons  after  breakfast  to-morrow." 

We  had  a  long  chat  by  the  fire  before  we  went  to  bed.  I 
slept  in  a  room  on  the  same  floor  with  my  aunt's,  and  was 
a  little  disturbed  in  the  course  of  the  night  by  her  knocking 
at  my  door,  as  often  as  she  was  agitated  by  a  distant  sound 
of  hackney-coaches  or  market-carts,  and  inquiring  "If  I 
heard  the  engines  ?"  But  towards  morning  she  slept  better, 
and  suffered  me  to  do  so  too. 

At  about  mid-day,  we  set  out  for  the  offices  of  Messrs. 
Spenlow  and  Jorkins  in  Doctors'  Commons.  My  aunt,  who 
had  this  other  general  opinion  in  reference  to  London,  that 
every  man  she  saw  was  a  pickpocket,  gave  me  her  purse  to 
carry  for  her,which  had  ten  guineas  in  it  and  some  silver. 

We  made  a  pause  at  the  toy-shop  in  Fleet-street,  to  see 
the  giants  of  Saint  Dunstan's  strike  upon  the  bells — we  had 
timed  our  going,  so  as  to  catch  them  at  it,  at  twelve  o'clock 
— and  then  went  on  towards  Ludgate  Hill,  and  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  We  were  crossing  to  the  former  place,  when 
I  found  that  my  aunt  greatly  accelerated  her  speed,  and 
looked  frightened.  I  observed,  at  the  same  time,  that  a 
lowering  ill-dressed  man  who  had  stopped  and  stared  at  us 
in  passing,  a  little  before,  was  coming  so  close  after  us,  as  to 
brush  against  her. 

"  Trot !  my  dear  Trot !  "  cried  my  aunt,  in  a  terrified  whis- 
per, and  pressing  my  arm.    *'I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  I.  "There  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.     Step  into  a  shop,  and  I'll  soon  get  rid  of  this  fellow." 

"  No,  no,  child  !  "  she  returned.  "  Don't  speak  to  him  for 
the  world.     I  entreat,  I  order  you  !  " 

"  Good  Heaven,  aunt  ! "  said  I.  "  He  is  nothing  but  a 
sturdy  beggar." 

"You  don't  know  what  he  is  !  "  replied  my  aunt.  "You 
don't  know  who  he  is  !     You  don't  know  what  to  say  !" 

We  had  stopped  in  an  empty  doorway,  while  this  was 
passing,  and  he  had  stopped  too. 


34^  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"Don't  look  at  him  !"  said  my  aunt,  as  I  turned  my  head 
indignantly,  "  but  get  me  a  coach,  my  dear,  and  wait  for  me 
in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard." 

"  Wait  for  you  ?"  I  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  my  aunt,  "  I  must  go  alone.  I  must  go 
with  him." 

"  With  him,  aunt  ?     This  man  ?" 

"  I  am  in  my  senses,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  tell  you  I  must. 
Get  me  a  coach  !" 

However  much  astonished  I  might  be,  I  was  sensible  that 
I  had  no  right  to  refuse  compliance  with  such  a  peremptory 
command.  I  hurried  away  a  few  paces,  and  called  a  hack- 
ney chariot  which  was  passing  empty.  Almost  before  I  could 
let  down  the  steps,  my  aunt  sprang  in,  I  don't  know  how, 
and  the  man  followed.  She  waved  her  hand  to  me  to  go 
away,  so  earnestly,  that,  all  confounded  as  I  was,  I  turned 
from  them  at  once.  In  doing  so  I  heard  her  say  to  the 
coachman.  "  Drive  anywhere  !  Drive  straight  on  !"  and 
presently  the  chariot  passed  me,  going  up  the  hill. 

What  Mr.  Dick  had  told  me,  and  what  I  had  supposed 
to  be  a  delusion  of  his,  now  came  into  my  mind.  I  could 
not  doubt  that  this  person  was  the  person  of  whom  he  had 
made  such  mysterious  mention,  though  what  the  nature  of 
his  hold  upon  my  aunt  could  possibly  be,  I  was  quite  unable 
to  imagine.  After  an  hour's  cooling  in  the  churchyard,  I 
saw  the  chariot  coming  back.  The  driver  stopped  beside 
me,  and  my  aunt  was  sitting  in  it  alone. 

She  had  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  from  her  agitation 
to  be  quite  prepared  for  the  visit  we  had  to  make.  She  de- 
sired me  to  get  into  the  chariot,  and  tell  the  coachman  to 
drive  slowly  up  and  down  a  little  while.  She  said  no  more, 
except,  "  My  dear  child,  never  ask  me  what  it  was,  and  don't 
refer  to  it,"  until  she  had  perfectly  regained  her  compos- 
ure, when  she  told  me  she  was  quite  herself  now,  and 
we  might  get  out.  On  her  giving  me  her  purse,  to  pay 
the  driver,  I  found  that  all  the  guineas  were  gone,  and  only 
the  loose  silver  remained. 

Doctors'  Commons  was  approached  by  a  little  low  arch- 
way. Before  we  had  taken  many  paces  down  the  street 
beyond  it,  the  noise  of  the  city  seemed  to  melt,  as  if  by 
magic,  into  a  softened  distance.  A  few  dull  courts,  and 
narrow  ways,  brought  us  to  the  sky-lighted  offices  of  Spen- 
low  and  Jorkins;  in  the  vestibule  of  which  temple,  acces- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  347 

sible  to  pilgrims  without  the  ceremony  of  knocking,  three 
or  four  clerks  were  at  work  as  copyists.  One  of  these,  a 
little  dry  man,  sitting  by  himself,  who  wore  a  stiff  brown 
wig  that  looked  as  if  it  were  made  of  gingerbread,  rose 
to  receive  my  aunt,  and  show  us  into  Mr.  Spenlow's  room. 

"  Mr.  Spenlow's  in  court,  ma'am,"  said  the  dry  man; 
"  it's  an  Arches  day;  but  it's  close  by,  and  I'll  send  for  him 
directly." 

As  we  were  left  to  look  about  us  while  Mr.  Spenlow  was 
fetched,  I  availed  myself  of  the  opportunity.  The  furniture 
of  the  room  was  old-fashioned  and  dusty;  and  the  green 
baize  on  the  top  of  the  writing-table  had  lost  all  its  color, 
and  was  as  withered  and  pale  as  an  old  pauper.  There 
were  a  great  many  bundles  of  papers  on  it,  some  indorsed  as 
Allegations,  and  some  (to  my  surprise)  as  Libels,  and  some 
as  being  in  the  Consistory  Court,  and  some  in  the  Arches 
Court,  and  some  in  the  Prerogative  Court,  and  some  in  the 
Admiralty  Court,  and  some  in  the  Delegates'  Court;  giving 
me  occasion  to  wonder  much,  how  many  Courts  there  might 
be  in  the  gross,  and  how  long  it  would  take  to  understand 
them  all.  Besides  these  there  were  sundry  immense  manu- 
script Books  of  Evidence  taken  on  affidavit,  strongly  bound, 
and  tied  together  in  massive  sets,  a  set  to  each  cause,  as  if 
every  cause  were  a  history  in  ten  or  twenty  volumes.  All 
this  looked  tolerably  expensive,  I  thought,  and  gave  me  an 
agreeable  notion  of  a  proctor's  business.  I  was  casting  my 
eyes  with  increasing  complacency  over  these  and  many  sim- 
ilar objects,  when  hasty  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  room 
outside,  and  Mr.  Spenlow,  in  a  black  gown  trimmed  with 
white  fur,  came  hurrying  in,  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  came. 

He  was  a  little  light-haired  gentleman,  with  undeniable 
boots  and  the  stiffest  of  white  cravats  and  shirt-collars. 
He  was  buttoned  up,  mighty  trim  and  tight,  and  must 
have  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  his  whiskers,  which 
were  accurately  curled.  His  gold  watch-chain  was  so 
massive,  that  a  fancy  came  across  me  that  he  ought  to 
have  a  sinewy  golden  arm,  to  draw  it  out  with,  like  those 
which  are  put  up  over  the  gold-beaters'  shops.  He  was 
got  up  with  such  care,  and  was  so  stiff,  that  he  could 
hardly  bend  himself;  being  obliged,  when  he  glanced  at 
some  papers  on  his  desk,  after  sitting  down  in  his  chair, 
to  move  his  whole  body,  from  the  bottom  of  his  spine,  like 
Punch. 


348  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  had  previously  been  presented  by  my  aunt,  and  had  been 
courteously  received.     He  now  said: 

"  And  so,  Mr.  Copperfield,  you  think  of  entering  into  our 
profession  ?  I  casually  mentioned  to  Miss  Trotwood,  when 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  an  interview  with  her  the  other 
day,"— with  another  inclination  of  his  body — Punch  again 
— "  that  there  was  a  vacancy  here.  Miss  Trotwood  was 
good  enough  to  mention  that  she  had  a  nephew  who  was 
her  peculiar  care,  and  for  whom  she  was  seeking  to  provide 
genteelly  in  life.  That  nephew,  I  believe,  I  have  now  the 
pleasure  of  " — Punch  again. 

I  bowed  my  acknowledgments,  and  said,  my  aunt  had 
mentioned  to  me  that  there  was  that  opening,  and  that  I 
believed  I  should  like  it  very  much.  That  I  was  strongly 
inclined  to  like  it,  and  had  taken  immediately  to  the  propo- 
sal. That  I  could  not  actually  pledge  myself  to  like  it, 
until  I  knew  something  more  about  it.  That  although  it 
was  little  else  than  a  matter  of  form,  I  presumed  I  should 
have  an  opportunity  of  trying  how  I  liked  it,  before  I 
bound  myself  to  it  irrevocably. 

"  Oh,  surely!  surely!"  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "We  always, 
in  this  house,  propose  a  month — an  initiatory  month.  I 
should  be  happy,  myself,  to  propose  two  months — three — 
an  indefinite  period,  in  fact, — but  I  have  a  partner.  Mr. 
Jorkins." 

"And  the  premium,  sir,"  I  returned,  "is  a  thousand 
pounds.''" 

"And  the  premium,  stamp  included,  is  a  thousand  pounds," 
said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "As  I  have  mentioned  to  Miss  Trot- 
wood, I  am  actuated  by  no  mercenary  considerations;  few 
men  less  so,  I  believe;  but  Mr.  Jorkins  has  his  opinions  on 
these  subjects,  and  I  am  bound  to  respect  Mr.  Jorkins's 
opinions.  Mr.  Jorkins  thinks  a  thousand  pounds  too  little, 
in  short." 

"  I  suppose,  sir,"  said  I,  still  desiring  to  spare  my  aunt, 
"  that  it  is  not  the  custom  here,  if  an  articled  clerk  were 
particularly  useful,  and  made  himself  a  perfect  master  of  his 
profession — "  I  could  not  help  blushing,  this  looked  so  like 
praising  myself — "  I  suppose  it  is  not  the  custom,  in  the 
later  years  of  his  time,  to  allow  him  any — " 

Mr.  Spenlow,  by  a  great  effort,  just  lifted  his  head  far 
enough  out  of  his  cravat  to  shake  it,  and  answered,  antici- 
pating the  word  "salary:" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  349 

"  No.  I  will  not  say  what  consideration  I  might  give  to 
that  point  myself,  Mr.  Copperfield,  if  I  were  unfettered. 
Mr.  Jorkins  is  immovable." 

I  was  quite  dismayed  by  the  idea  of  this  terrible  Jorkins. 
But  I  found  out  afterwards  that  he  was  a  mild  man,  of  a 
heavy  temperament,  whose  place  in  the  business  was  to  keep 
himself  in  the  background,  and  be  constantly  exhibited  by 
name  as  the  most  obdurate  and  ruthless  of  men.  If  a  clerk 
wanted  his  salary  raised,  Mr.  Jorkins  wouldn't  listen  to  such 
a  proposition.  If  a  client  were  slow  to  settle  his  bill  of 
costs,  Mr.  Jorkins  was  resolved  to  have  it  paid;  and  how- 
ever painful  these  things  might  be  (and  always  were)  to  the 
feelings  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  Mr.  Jorkins  would  have  his  bond. 
The  heart  and  hand  of  the  good  angel  Spenlow  would  have 
been  always  open,  but  for  the  restraining  demon  Jorkins. 
As  I  have  grown  older,  I  think  I  have  had  the  experience  of 
some  other  houses  doing  business  on  the  principle  of  Spen- 
low and  Jorkins. 

It  was  settled  that  I  should  begin  my  month's  probation 
as  soon  as  I  pleased,  and  that  my  aunt  need  neither  remain 
in  town  nor  return  at  its  expiration,  as  the  articles  of  agree- 
ment, of  which  I  was  to  be  the  subject,  could  easily  be  sent 
to  her  at  home  for  her  signature.  When  we  had  got  so  far, 
Mr.  Spenlow  offered  to  take  me  into  court  then  and  there, 
and  show  me  what  sort  of  place  it  was.  As  I  was  willing 
enough  to  know,  we  went  out  with  this  object,  leaving  my 
aunt  behind;  who  would  trust  herself,  she  said,  in  no  such 
place,  and  who,  I  think,  regarded  all  courts  of  law  as  a  sort 
of  powder-mills  that  might  blow  up  at  any  time. 

Mr.  Spenlow  conducted  me  through  a  paved  courtyard 
formed  of  grave  brick  houses,  which  I  inferred,  from  the 
Doctors'  names  upon  the  doors,  to  be  the  official  abiding- 
places  of  the  learned  advocates  of  whom  Steerforth  had  told 
me;  and  into  a  large  dull  room,  not  unlike  a  chapel  to  my 
thinking,  on  the  left  hand.  The  upper  part  of  this  room 
was  fenced  off  from  the  rest;  and  there,  on  the  two  sides  of 
a  raised  platform  of  the  horse-shoe  form,  sitting  on  easy 
old-fashioned  dining-room  chairs,  were  sundry  gentlemen  in 
red  gowns  and  gray  wigs,  whom  I  found  to  be  the  Doctors 
aforesaid.  Blinking  over  a  little  desk  like  a  pulpit-desk,  in 
the  curve  of  the  horse-shoe,  was  an  old  gentleman,  whom,  if 
I  had  seen  him  in  an  aviary,  I  should  certainly  have  taken 
for  an  owl,  but  who  I  learned  was  the  presiding  judge.    In 


350  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

the  space  within  the  horse-shoe,  lower  than  these,  that  is  to 
say,  on  about  the  level  of  the  floor,  were  sundry  other  gen- 
tlemen of  Mr.  Spenlow's  rank,  and  dressed  like  him  in  black 
gowns  with  white  fur  upon  them,  sitting  at  a  long  green 
table.  Their  cravats  were  in  general  stiff,  I  thought,  and 
their  looks  haughty;  but  in  this  last  respect  I  presently  con- 
ceived I  had  done  them  an  injustice,  for  when  two  or  three 
of  them  had  to  rise  and  answer  a  question  of  the  presiding 
dignitary,  I  never  saw  anything  more  sheepish.  The  pub- 
lic, represented  by  a  boy  with  a  comforter,  and  a  shabby- 
genteel  man  secretly  eating  crumbs  out  of  his  coat  pocket, 
was  warming  itself  at  a  stove  in  the  centre  of  the  court. 
The  languid  stillness  of  the  place  was  only  broken  by  the 
chirping  of  this  fire  and  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the  Doctors, 
who  was  wandering  slowly  through  a  perfect  library  of  evi- 
dence, and  stopping  to  put  up,  from  time  to  time,  at  little 
roadside  inns  of  argument  on  the  journey.  Altogether,  I 
have  never,  on  any  occasion,  made  one  at  such  a  cosey, 
dosey,  old-fashioned,  time-forgotten,  sleepy-headed  little 
family  party  in  all  my  life;  and  I  felt  it  would  be  quite  a 
soothing  opiate  to  belong  to  it  in  any  character — except 
perhaps  as  a  suitor. 

Very  well  satisfied  with  the  dreamy  nature  of  this  retreat, 
I  informed  Mr.  Spenlow  that  I  had  seen  enough  for  that 
time,  and  we  rejoined  my  aunt;  in  company  with  whom  I 
presently  departed  from  the  Commons,  feeling  very  young 
when  I  went  out  of  Spenlow  and  Jorkins's,  on  account  of  the 
clerks  poking  one  another  with  their  pens  to  point  me   out. 

We  arrived  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  without  any  new  ad- 
ventures, except  encountering  an  unlucky  donkey  in  a  cos- 
termonger's  cart,  who  suggested  painful  associations  to  my 
aunt.  We  had  another  long  talk  about  my  plans,  when  we 
were  safely  housed;  and  as  I  knew  she  was  anxious  to  get 
home,  and,  between  fire,  food,  and  pickpockets,  could  never 
be  considered  at  her  ease  for  half  an  hour  in  London,  I 
urged  her  not  to  be  uncomfortable  on  my  account,  but  to 
leave  me  to  take  care  of  myself. 

"  I  have  not  been  here  a  week  to-morrow,  without  consid- 
ering that  too,  my  dear,"  she  returned.  ''There  is  a  fur- 
nished little  set  of  chambers  to  be  let  in  the  Adelphi,  Trot, 
which  ought  to  suit  you  to  a  marvel." 

With  this  brief  introduction,  she  produced  from  her 
pocket  an  advertisement,  carefully  cut  out  of  a  newspaper, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  351 

setting  forth  that  in  Buckingham  street  in  the  Adelphi,  there 
was  to  be  let,  furnished,  with  a  view  of  the  river,  a  singu- 
larly desirable  and  compact  set  of  chambers,  forming  a  gen- 
teel residence  for  a  young  gentleman,  a  member  of  one  of 
the  Inns  of  Court,  or  otherwise,  with  immediate  possession. 
Terms  moderate,  and  could  be  taken  for  a  month  only  if  re- 
quired. 

"Why,  this  is  the  very  thing,  aunt!"  said  I,  flushed  with 
the  possible  dignity  of  living  in  chambers. 

**  Then  come,"  replied  my  aunt,  immediately  resuming  the 
bonnet  she  had  a  minute  before  laid  aside.  "  We'll  go  and 
look  at  'em." 

Away  we  went.  The  advertisement  directed  us  to  apply 
to  Mrs.  Crupp  on  the  premises,  and  we  rung  the  area  bell, 
which  we  supposed  to  communicate  with  Mrs.  Crupp.  It 
was  not  until  we  had  rung  three  or  four  times  that  we  could 
prevail  on  Mrs.  Crupp  to  communicate  with  us,  but  at  last 
she  appeared,  being  a  stout  lady  with  a  flounce  of  flannel 
petticoat  below  a  nankeen  gown. 

"  Let  us  see  these  chambers  of  yours,  if  you  please, 
ma'am,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  For  this  gentleman?"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  feeling  in  her 
pocket  for  her  keys. 

"  Yes,  for  my  nephew,"  said  my  aunt. 

"And  a  sweet  set  they  is  for  sich!"  said  Mrs.  Crupp. 

So  we  went  up  stairs. 

They  were  on  the  top  of  the  house — a  great  point  with 
my  aunt,  being  near  the  fire-escape — and  consisted  of  a  lit- 
tle half-blind  entry,  where  you  could  see  hardly  anything,  a 
little  stone-blind  pantry,  where  you  could  see  nothing  at  all, 
a  sitting  room,  and  a  bedroom.  The  furniture  was  rather 
faded,  but  quite  good  enough  for  me;  and,  sure  enough,  the 
river  was  outside  the  windows. 

As  I  was  delighted  with  the  place,  my  aunt  and  Mrs. 
Crupp  withdrew  into  the  pantry  to  discuss  the  terms,  while 
I  remained  on  the  sitting-room  sofa,  hardly  daring  to  think 
it  possible  that  I  could  be  destined  to  live  in  such  a  noble 
residence.  After  a  single  combat  of  some  duration  they 
returned,  and  I  saw,  to  my  joy,  both  in  Mrs.  Crupp's  coun- 
tenance and  in  my  aunt's,  that  the  deed  was  done. 

"  Is  it  the  last  occupant's  furniture?"  inquired  my  aunt 

"Yes  it  is,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp. 

"What's  become  of  him?"  asked  my  aunt. 


352  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mrs.  Crupp  was  taken  with  a  troublesome  cough,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  articulated  with  much  difficulty.  "  He 
was  took  ill  here,  ma'am,  and — ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  dear  me! — 
and  he  died." 

"  Hey!     What  did  he  die  of?"  asked  my  aunt. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  he  died  of  drink,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  con- 
fidence.    "And  smoke." 

"  Smoke?     You  don't  mean  chimneys? "  said  my  aunt. 

**  No,  ma'am,  returned  Mrs.  Crupp.     "  Cigars  and  pipes." 

"  Thafs  not  catching.  Trot,  at  any  rate,"  remarked  my 
aunt,  turning  to  me. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  I 

In  short,  my  aunt,  seeing  how  enraptured  I  was  with  the 
premises,  took  them  for  a  month,  with  leave  to  remain  for 
twelve  months  when  that  time  was  out.  Mrs.  Crupp  was  to 
find  linen,  and  to  cook;  every  other  necessary  was  already 
provided;  and  Mrs.  Crupp  expressly  intimated  that  she 
should  always  yearn  towards  me  as  a  son.  I  was  to  take 
possession  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  Mrs.  Crupp  said 
thank  Heaven  she  had  now  found  summun  she  could  care  for! 

On  our  way  back,  my  aunt  informed  me  how  she  confi- 
dently trusted  that  the  life  I  was  now  to  lead  would  make 
me  firm  and  self-reliant,  which  was  all  I  wanted.  She  re- 
peated this  several  times  the  next  day,  in  the  intervals  of 
our  arranging  for  the  transmission  of  my  clothes  and  books 
from  Mr.  Wickfield's;  relative  to  which,  and  to  all  my  late 
holiday,  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Agnes,  of  which  my  aunt 
took  charge,  as  she  was  to  leave  on  the  succeeding  day. 
Not  to  lengthen  these  particulars,  I  need  only  add,  that  she 
made  a  handsome  provision  for  all  my  possible  wants  during 
my  month  of  trial;  that  Steerforth,  to  my  great  disappoint- 
ment and  hers  too,  did  not  make  his  appearance  before  she 
went  away;  that  I  saw  her  safely  seated  in  the  Dover  coach, 
exulting  in  the  coming  discomfiture  of  the  vagrant  donkeys, 
with  Janet  at  her  side;  and  what  when  that  coach  was  gone, 
I  turned  my  face  to  the  Adelphi,  pondering  on  the  old  days 
when  I  used  to  roam  about  its  subterranean  arches,  and  on 
the  happy  changes  which  had  brought  me  to  the  surface. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  353 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MY   FIRST   DISSIPATION. 

It  was  a  wonderfully  fine  thing  to  have  that  lofty  castle  to 
myself,  and  to  feel,  when  I  shut  my  outer  door,  like  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  when  he  had  got  into  his  fortification,  and  pulled 
his  ladder  up  after  him.  It  was  a  wonderfully  fine  thing  to 
walk  about  town  with  the  key  of  my  house  in  my  pocket, 
and  to  know  that  I  could  ask  any  fellow  to  come  home,  and 
make  quite  sure  of  its  being  inconvenient  to  nobody,  if  it 
were  not  so  to  me.  It  was  a  wonderfully  fine  thing  to  let 
myself  in  and  out,  and  to  come  and  go  without  a  word  to 
any  one,  and  to  ring  Mrs.  Crupp  up,  gasping,  from  the  depths 
of  the  earth,  when  I  wanted  her — and  when  she  was  disposed 
to  come.  All  this,  I  say,  was  wonderfully  fine;  but  I  must 
say,  too,  that  there  were  times  when  it  was  very  dreary. 

It  was  fine  in  the  morning,  particularly  in  the  fine  morn- 
ings. It  looked  a  very  fresh,  free  life,  by  daylight;  still 
fresher,  and  more  free,  by  sunlight.  But  as  the  day  de- 
clined, the  life  seemed  to  go  down  too.  I  don't  know  how 
it  was;  it  seldom  looked  well  by  candle-light.  I  wanted 
somebody  to  talk  to,  then.  I  missed  Agnes.  I  found  a 
tremendous  blank,  in  the  place  of  that  smiling  repository 
of  my  confidence.  Mrs.  Crupp  appeared  to  be  a  long  way 
off.  I  thought  about  my  predecessor,  who  had  died  of 
drink  and  smoke;  and  I  could  have  wished  he  had  been  so 
good  as  to  live,  and  not  bother  me  with  his  decease. 

After  two  days  and  nights,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  there 
for  a  year,  and  yet  I  was  not  an  hour  older,  but  was  quite 
as  much  tormented  by  my  own  youthfulness  as  ever. 

Steerforth  not  yet  appearing,  which  induced  me  to  ap- 
prehend that  he  must  be  ill,  I  left  the  Commons  early  on  the 
third  day,  and  walked  out  to  Highgate.  Mrs.  Steerforth 
was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  said  that  he  had  gone  away 
with  one  of  his  Oxfoid  friends  to  see  another  who  lived 
near  St.  Albans,  but  that  she  expected  him  to  return  to- 
morrow. I  was  so  fond  of  him  that  I  felt  quite  jealous  of 
his  Oxford  friends. 

As  she  pressed  me  to  stay  to  dinner,  I  remained,  and  I 
believe  we  talked  about  nothing  but  him  all  day.  I  told  her 
how  much  the  people  liked  him  at  Yarmouth,  and  what  a 


354  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

delightful  companion  he  had  been.  Miss  Dartle  was  full  o! 
hints  and  mysterious  questions,  but  took  a  great  interest  in 
all  our  proceedings  there,  and  said,  "  Was  it  really,  though?" 
and  so  forth,  so  often,  that  she  got  everything  out  of  me 
she  wanted  to  know.  Her  appearance  was  exactly  what  I 
have  described  it,  when  I  first  saw  her;  but  the  society  of 
the  two  ladies  was  so  agreeable,  and  came  so  natural  to  me, 
that  I  felt  myself  falling  a  little  in  love  with  her.  I  could 
not  help  thinking,  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing, and  particularly  when  I  walked  home  at  night,  what  de- 
lightful company  she  would  be  in  Buckingham  Street, 

I  was  taking  my  coffee  and  roll  in  the  morning,  before 
going  to  the  Commons — and  I  may  observe  in  this  place 
that  it  is  surprising  how  much  coffee  Mrs.  Crupp  used,  and 
how  weak  it  was,  considering — when  Steerforth  himself 
walked  in,  to  my  unbounded  joy. 

"  My  dear  Steerforth,"  cried  I,  "  I  began  to  think  I  should 
never  see  you  again  !" 

"  I  was  carried  off,  by  force  of  arms,"  said  Steerforth, 
"the  very  next  morning  after  I  got  home.  Why,  Daisy, 
what  a  rare  old  Bachelor  you  are  here  !" 

I  showed  him  over  the  establishment,  not  omitting  the 
pantry,  with  no  little  pride,  and  he  commended  it  highly. 
"  I  tell  you  what,  old  boy,"  he  added,  "  I  shall  make  quite 
a  town-house  of  this  place,  unless  you  give  me  notice  to  quit." 

This  was  a  delightful  hearing.  I  told  him  if  he  waited 
for  that,  he  would  have  to  wait  till  doomsday. 

"  But  you  shall  have  some  breakfast  !"  said  I,  with  my 
hand  on  the  bell-rope,  "  and  Mrs.  Crupp  shall  make  you 
some  fresh  coffee,  and  I'll  toast  you  some  bacon  in  a  bach- 
elor's Dutch-oven  that  I  have  got  here." 

"  No,  no  !"  said  Steerforth.  "  Don't  ring  !  I  can't.  I 
am  going  to  breakfast  with  one  of  these  fellows  who  is  at 
the  Piazza  Hotel,  in  Covent  Garden." 

"  But  you'll  come  back  to  dinner  ?"  said  I. 

"I  can't,  upon  my  life.  There's  nothing  I  should  like 
better,  but  I  must  remain  with  these  two  fellows.  We  are 
all  three  off  together  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Then  bring  them  here  to  dinner,"  I  returned.  "  Do  you 
think  they  would  come  ?" 

"  Oh  !  they  would  come  fast  enough,"  said  Steerforth; 
"  but  we  should  inconvenience  you.  You  had  better  come 
and  dine  with  us  somewhere." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  355 

I  would  not  by  any  means  consent  to  this,  for  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I  really  ought  to  have  a  little  housewarming,  and 
i*hat  there  never  could  be  a  better  opportunity.  I  had  a 
new  pride  in  my  rooms  after  his  approval  of  them,  and 
burned  with  a  desire  to  develop  their  utmost  resources.  I 
therefore  made  him  promise  positively  in  the  names  of  his 
two  friends,  and  we  appointed  six  o'clock  as  the  dinner- 
hour. 

When  he  was  gone,  I  rang  for  Mrs.  Crupp,  and  acquainted 
her  with  my  desperate  design.  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  in  the  first 
place,  of  course  it  was  well  known  she  couldn't  be  expected 
to  wait,  but  she  knew  a  handy  young  man,  who  she  thought 
could  be  prevailed  upon  to  do  it,  and  whose  terms  would 
be  five  shillings,  and  what  I  pleased.  I  said,  certainly,  we 
would  have  him.  Next,  Mrs.  Crupp  said  it  was  clear  she 
couldn't  be  in  two  places  at  once  (which  I  felt  to  be  reason- 
able), and  that  "  a  young  gal "  stationed  in  the  pantry  with 
a  bed-room  candle,  there  never  to  desist  from  washing 
plates,  would  be  indispensable.  I  said,  what  would  be  the 
expense  of  this  young  female,  and  Mrs.  Crupp  said  she  sup- 
posed eighteen-pence  would  neither  make  nor  break  me.  I 
said  I  supposed  not;  and  /^«/ was  settled.  Then  Mrs.  Crupp 
said,  Now  about  the  dinner. 

It  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  want  of  forethought  on 
the  part  of  the  ironmonger  who  had  made  Mrs.  Crupp's 
kitchen  fire-place,  that  it  was  capable  of  cooking  nothing 
but  chops  and  mashed  potatoes.  As  to  a  fish-kettle,  Mrs. 
Crupp  said,  well !  would  I  only  come  and  look  at  the  range. 
She  couldn't  say  fairer  than  that.  Would  I  come  and  look 
at  it  ?  As  I  should  not  have  been  much  the  wiser  if  I  had 
looked  at  it,  I  declined,  and  said,  '*  Never  mind  fish."  But 
Mrs.  Crupp  said,  Don't  say  that;  oysters  was  in,  and  why 
not  them?  So //;^/ was  settled.  Mrs.  Crupp  then  said  what  she 
would  recommend  would  be  this.  A  pair  of  hot  roast  fowls 
— from  the  pastry-cook's;  a  dish  of  stewed  beef,  with  vege- 
tables— from  the  pastry-cook's;  two  little  corner  things,  as  a 
raised  pie  and  a  dish  of  kidneys — from  the  pastry-cook's;  a 
tart,  and  (if  I  liked)  a  shape  of  jelly — from  the  pastry- 
cook's. This,  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  would  leave  her  at  full 
liberty  to  concentrate  her  mind  on  the  potatoes,  and  to  serve 
up  the  cheese  and  celery  as  she  could  wish  to  see  it  done. 

I  acted  on  Mrs.  Crupp's  opinion,  and  gave  the  order  at  the 
pastry-cook's  myself.  Walking  along  the  Strand,  afterwards. 


3s6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  observing  a  hard  mottled  substance  in  the  window  of  A 
ham  and  beef  shop,  which  resembled  marble,  but  was  labelled 
"  Mock  Turtle,"  I  went  in  and  bought  a  slab  of  it,  which  I 
have  since  reason  to  believe  would  have  sufficed  for  fifteen 
people.  This  preparation,  Mrs.  Crupp,  after. some  difficulty, 
consented  to  warm  up;  and  it  shrunk  so  much  in  a  liquid 
state,  that  we  found  it  what  Steerforth  called  *'  rather  a  tight 
fit "  for  four. 

These  preparations  happily  completed,  I  bought  a  little 
dessert  in  Covent  Garden  Market,  and  gave  a  rather  exten- 
sive order  at  a  retail  wine-merchant's  in  that  vicinity.  When 
I  came  home  in  the  afternoon,  and  saw  the  bottles  drawn  up 
in  a  square  on  the  pantry-floor,  they  looked  so  numerous 
(though  there  were  two  missing  which  made  Mrs.  Crupp  very 
uncomfortable)  that  I  was  absolutely  frightened  at  them. 

One  of  Steerforth's  friends  was  named  Grainger,  and  the 
other  Markham.  They  were  both  very  gay  and  lively  fellows; 
Grainger,  something  older  than  Steerforth;  Markham,  youth- 
ful-looking, and  I  should  say  not  more  than  twenty.  I  ob- 
served that  the  latter  always  spoke  of  himself  indefinitely,  as 
"  a  man,"  and  seldom  or  never  in  the  first  person  singular. 

"  A  man  might  get  on  very  well  here,  Mr.  Copperfield," 
said  Markham — meaning  himself. 

*'  It's  not  a  bad  situation,"  said  I,  "  and  the  rooms  are 
really  commodious." 

"  I  hope  you  have  both  brought  appetites  with  you  ?"  said 
Steerforth. 

"  Upon  my  honor/*  returned  Markham,  "  town  seems  to 
sharpen  a  man's  appetite.  A  man  is  hungry  all  day  long.  A 
man  is  perpetually  eating." 

Being  a  little  embarrassed  at  first,  and  feeling  much  too 
young  to  preside,  I  made  Steerforth  take  the  head  of  the 
table  when  dinner  was  announced,  and  seated  myself  oppo- 
site to  him.  Everything  was  very  good;  we  did  not  spare 
the  wine;  and  he  exerted  himself  so  brilliantly  to  make  the 
thing  pass  off  well,  that  there  was  no  pause  in  our  festivity. 
I  was-  not  quite  such  good  company  during  dinner,  as  I  could 
have  wished  to  be,  for  my  chair  was  opposite  the  door,  and 
my  attention  was  distracted  by  observing  that  the  handy 
young  man  went  out  of  the  room  very  often,  and  that  his 
shadow  always  presented  itself,  immediately  afterwards,  on 
the  wall  of  the  entry,  with  a  bottle  at  its  mouth.  The  "young 
girl  "  likewise  occasioned  me  some  uneasiness:  not  so  much 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  357 

by  neglecting  to  wash  the  plates,  as  by  breaking  them.  For 
being  of  an  inquisitive  disposition,  and  unable  to  confine 
herself  (as  her  positive  instructions  were)  to  the  pantry,  she 
was  constantly  peering  in  at  us,  and  constantly  imagining 
herself  detected  ;  in  which  belief,  she  several  times  retired 
upon  the  plates  (with  which  she  carefully  paved  the  floor), 
and  did  a  great  deal  of  destruction. 

These,  however,  were  small  drawbacks,  and  easily  forgotten 
when  the  cloth  was  cleared,  and  the  dessert  put  on  the  table; 
at  which  period  of  the  entertainment  the  handy  young  man 
was  discovered  to  be  speechless.  Giving  him  private  direc- 
tions to  seek  the  society  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  and  to  remove  the 
*'  young  gal "  to  the  basement  also,  I  ab§,ndoned  myself  to 
enjoyment. 

I  began,  by  being  singularly  cheerful  and  light-hearted;  all 
sorts  of  half-forgotten  things  to  talk  about,  came  rushing 
into  my  mind,  and  made  me  hold  forth  in  a  most  unwonted 
manner.  I  laughed  heartily  at  my  own  jokes,  and  everybody 
else's;  called  Steerforth  to  ord^r  for  not  passing  the  wine; 
made  several  engagements  to  go  to  Oxford;  announced  that 
I  meant  to  have  a  dinner  party  exactly  like  that,  once  a  week 
until  further  notice;  and  madly  took  so  much  snuff  out  of 
Grainger's  box,  that  I  was  obHged  to  go  into  the  pantry^  and 
have  a  private  fit  of  sn/^^ezing  ten  minutes  long. 

I  went  on,  by  passing  the  wine  faster  and  faster  yet,  and 
continually  starting  up  with  a  corkscrew  to  open  more  wine, 
long  before  any  was  needed.  I  proposed  Steerforth's  health. 
I  said  he  was  my  dearest  friend,  the  protector  of  my  boy- 
hood, and  the  companion  of  my  prime.  I  said  I  was  de- 
lighted to  propose  his  health.  I  said  I  owed  him  more  ob- 
ligation than  I  could  ever  repay,  and  held  him  in  a  higher 
admiration  than  I  could  ever  express.  I  finished  by  saying 
"  I'll  give  you  Steerforth  !  God  bless  him  !  Hurrah  !"  We 
gave  him  three  times  three,  and  another,  and  a  good  one  to 
finish  with.  I  broke  my  glass  in  going  round  the  table  to 
shake  hands  with  him,  and  I  said  (in  two  words)  "  Steer- 
forth, you'retheguidingstarofmyexistence." 

I  went  on,  by  finding  suddenly  that  somebody  was  in  the 
middle  of  a  song.  Markham  was  the  singer,  and  he  sang 
"  When  the  heart  of  a  man  is  depressed  with  care."  He 
said,  when  he  had  sung  it,  he  would  give  us  "  Woman."  I 
took  objection  to  that,  and  I  couldn't  allow  it.  I  said  it 
was    not  a   respectful  way  of    proposing  the  toast,  and  I 


358  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

would  never  permit  that  toast  to  be  drunk  in  my  house 
otherwise  than  as  "  The  Ladies."  I  was  very  high  with 
him,  mainly  I  think  because  I  saw  Steerforth  and  Grain- 
ger laughing  at  me — or  at  him — or  at  both  of  us.  He 
said  a  man  was  not  to  be  dictated  to.  I  said  a  man  was. 
He  said  a  man  was  not  to  be  insulted,  then.  I  said  he 
was  right  there — never  under  my  roof,  where  the  Lares 
were  sacred,  and  the  laws  of  hospitality  paramount.  He 
said  it  was  no  derogation  from  a  man's  dignity  to  con- 
fess that  I  was  a  devilish  good  fellow.  I  instantly  proposed 
his  health. 

Somebody  was  smoking.  We  were  all  smoking.  /  was 
smoking,  and  trying  to  suppress  a  rising  tendency  to  shudder. 
Steerforth  had  made  a  speech  about  me,  in  the  course  of  which 
I  had  been  affected  almost  to  tears.  I  returned  thanks,  and 
hoped  the  present  company  would  dine  with  me  to-morrow,and 
the  day  after — each  day  at  five  o'clock,  that  we  might  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  conversation  and  society  through  a  long  even- 
ing. I  felt  called  upon  to  jTropose  an  individual.  I  would 
give  them  my  aunt.  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood,  the  best  of 
her  sex! 

Somebody  was  leaning  out  of  my  bedroom  window,  re- 
freshing his  forehead  against  the  cold  stone  of  the  parapet, 
and  feeling  the  air  upon  his  face.  It  was  myself.  I  was 
addressing  myself  as  "  Copperfield,"  and  saying,  "  Why  did 
you  try  to  smoke  ?  You  might  have  known  you  couldn't 
do  it."  Now,  somebody  was  unsteadily  contemplating  his 
features  in  the  looking-glass.  That  was  I,  too.  I  was 
very  pale  in  the  looking-glass;  my  eyes  had  a  vacant  ap- 
pearance; and  my  hair — only  my  hair,  and  nothing  else — 
looked  drunk. 

Somebody  said  to  me,  *'  Let  us  go  the  theater.  Copper- 
field!"  There  was  no  bed-room  before  me,  but  again  the 
jingling  table  covered  with  glasses;  the  lamp;  Grainger  on 
my  right  hand,  Markham  on  my  left,  and  Steerforth  oppo- 
site,— all  sitting  in  a  mist,  and  a  long  way  off.  The  theater.? 
To  be  sure.  The  very  thing!  Come  along!  But  they  must 
excuse  me  if  I  saw  everybody  out  first,  and  turned  the  lamp 
off — in  case  of  fire. 

Owing  to  some  confusion  in  the  dark,  the  door  was  gone. 
I  was  feeling  for  it  in  the  window-curtains,  when  Steerforth, 
laughing,  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  led  me  out.  We  went 
down-stairs,  one  behind  another.     Near  the  bottom,  some- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  359 

body  fell,  and  rolled  down.  Somebody  else  said  it  was  Cop* 
perfield.  I  was  angry  at  that  false  report,  until  finding  my- 
self on  my  back  in  the  passage,  I  began  to  think  there  might 
be  some  foundation  for  it. 

A  very  foggy  night,  with  great  rings  round  the  lamps  in 
the  streets!  There  was  an  indistinct  talk  of  its  being  wet. 
/  considered  it  frosty.  Steerforth  dusted  me  under  a  lamp- 
post, and  put  my  hat  into  shape,  which  somebody  produced 
from  somewhere  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  for  I 
hadn't  had  it  on  before.  Steerforth  then  said,  "  You  are 
all  rights  Copperfield,  are  you  not  ?"  and  I  told  him,  "  Nev- 
erberrer." 

A  man,  sitting  in  a  pigeon-hole-place,  looked  out  of  the 
fog,  and  took  money  from  somebody,  inquiring  if  I  was  one  of 
the  gentlemen  paid  for,  and  appearing  rather  doubtful  (as  I 
remember  in  the  glimpse  I  had  of  him)  whether  to  take  the 
money  from  me  or  not.  Shortly  afterwards  we  were  very 
high  up  in  a  very  hot  theater,  looking  down  into  a  very 
large  pit,  that  seemed  to  me  to  smoke;  the  people  with  whom 
it  was  crammed  were  so  indistinct.  There  was  a  great 
stage,  too,  looking  very  clean  and  smooth  after  the  streets; 
and  there  were  people  upon  it,  talking  about  something  or 
other,  but  not  at  all  intelligibly.  There  was  an  abundance 
of  bright  lights,  and  there  was  music,  and  there  were  ladies 
down  in  the  boxes,  and  I  don't  know  what  more.  The 
whole  building  looked  to  me,  as  if  it  were  learning  to  swim; 
it  conducted  itself  in  such  an  unaccountable  manner,  when 
I  tried  to  steady  it. 

On  somebody's  motion,  we  resolved  to  go  down-stairs  to 
the  dress-boxes,  where  the  ladies  were.  A  gentleman  loung- 
ing, full-dressed,  on  a  sofa,  with  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand, 
passed  before  my  view,  and  also  my  own  figure  at  full  length 
in  a  glass.  Then  I  was  being  ushered  into  one  of  these 
boxes,  and  found  myself  saying  something  as  I  sat  down, 
and  people  about  me  crying  "  Silence!"  to  somebody,  and 
ladies  casting  indignant  glances  at  me,  and — what! — yes! — 
Agnes,  sitting  on  the  seat  before  me,  in  the  same  box,  with 
a  lady  and  gentleman  beside  her,  whom  I  didn't  know.  I 
see  her  face  now,  better  than  I  did  then,  I  dare  say,  with  its 
indelible  look  of  regret  and  wonder  turned  upon  me. 

"Agnes!"  I  said,  thickly.     "  Lorblessmer!  Agnes!" 

"Hush!  Pray!"  she  answered,  I  could  not  conceive  why, 
"  You  disturb  the  company.     Look  at  the  stage!" 


SCO  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  tried,  on  her  injunction,  to  fix  it,  and  to  hear  something 
of  what  was  going  on  there,  but  quite  in  vain.  I  looked  at 
her  again  by-and-by,  and  saw  her  shrink  into  her  corner,  and 
put  her  gloved  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"Agnes,"  I  said,  "  I'mafraidyou'renorwell." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Do  not  mind  me,  Trotwood,"  she  returned. 
*'  Listen!     Are  you  going  away  soon?" 

"  Amigoarawaysoo?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes." 

I  had  a  stupid  intention  of  replying  that  I  was  going  to 
wait,  to  hand  her  down  stairs.  I  suppose  I  expressed  it 
somehow;  for,  after  she  had  looked  at  me  attentively  for  a 
little  while,  she  appeared  to  understand,  and  replied  in  a 
low  tone: 

"  I  know  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  if  I  tell  you  I  am  very 
earnest  in  it.  Go  away  now,  Trotwood,  for  my  sake,  and 
ask  your  friends  to  take  you  home." 

She  had  so  far  improved  me,  for  the  time,  that  though  I 
was  angry  with  her,  I  felt  ashamed,  and  with  a  short 
"Goori!"  (which  I  intended  for  "Good  night!")  got  up  and 
went  away.  They  followed,  and  I  stepped  at  once  out  of 
the  box-door  into  my  bedroom,  where  only  Steerforth  was 
with  me,  helping  me  to  undress,  and  where  I  was  by  turns 
telling  him  that  Agnes  was  my  sister,  and  adjuring  him 
to  bring  the  corkscrew,  that  I  might  open  another  bottle 
of  wine. 

How  somebody,  lying  in  my  bed,  lay  saying  and  doing  all 
this  over  again,  at  cross-purposes,  in  a  feverish  dream  all 
night — the  bed  a  rocking  sea  that  was  never  still.  How, 
as  that .  somebody  slowly  settled  down  into  himself,  did  I 
begin  to  parch,  and  feel  as  if  my  outer  covering  of  skin 
were  a  hard  board;  my  tongue  the  bottom  of  an  empty  ket- 
tle, furred  with  long  service,  and  burning  up  over  a  slow 
fire;  the  palms  of  my  hands,  hot  plates  of  metal,  which  no 
ice  could  cool. 

But  the  agony  of  mind,  the  remorse,  and  shame  I  felt, when 
I  became  conscious  next  day!  My  horror  of  having  com- 
mitted a  thousand  offenses  I  had  forgotten,  and  which  noth- 
ing could  ever  expiate — my  recollection  of  that  indelible 
look  which  Agnes  had  given  me — the  torturing  impossibility 
of  communicating  with  her,  not  knowing,  beast  that  I  was, 
how  she  came  to  be  in  London,*  or  where  she  stayed — my 
disgust  of  the  very  sight  of  the  room  where  the  revel  had 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  361 

been  held — my  racking  head — the  smell  of  smoke,  the  sight 
of  glasses,  the  impossibility  of  going  out,  or  even  getting  up! 
Oh,  what  a  day  it  was! 

Oh,  what  an  evening,  when  I  sat  down  by  the  fire  to  a 
basin  of  mutton  broth,  dimpled  all  over  with  fat,  and  thought 
I  was  going  the  way  of  my  predecessor,  and  should  succeed 
to  his  dismal  story  as  well  as  his  chambers,  and  had  half  a 
mind  to  rush  express  to  Dover  and  reveal  all !  What  an 
evening,  when  Mrs.  Crupp,  coming  in  to  take  away  the  broth 
basin,  produced  one  kidney  on  a  cheese-plate  as  the  entire 
remains  of  yesterday's  feast,  and  I  was  really  inclined  to  fall 
upon  her  nankeen  breast,  and  say  in  heartfelt  penitence, 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Crupp,  Mrs.  Crupp!  never  mind  the  broken 
meats!  I  am  very  miserable!" — only  that  I  doubted,  even 
at  that  pass,  if  Mrs.  Crupp  were  quite  the  sort  of  woman  to 
confide  in! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

GOOD    AND    BAD    ANGELS. 

I  WAS  going  out  at  my  door  on  the  morning  after  that  de- 
plorable day  of  headache,  sickness,  and  repentance,  with  an 
odd  confusion  in  my  mind,  relative  to  the  date  of  my  din- 
ner-party, as  if  a  body  of  Titans  had  taken  an  enormous 
lever  and  pushed  the  day  before  yesterday  some  months 
back,  when  I  saw  a  ticket-porter  coming  up-stairs,  with  a 
letter  in  his  hand.  He  was  taking  his  time  about  his  errand, 
then;  but  when  he  saW  me  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  look- 
ing at  him  over  the  bannisters,  he  swung  into  a  trot,  and 
came  up  panting  as  if  he  had  run  himself  into  a  state  of  ex- 
haustion. 

"  T.  Copperfield,  Esquire,"  said  the  ticket-porter,  touching 
his  hat  with  his  little  cane. 

I  could  scarcely  lay  claim  to  the  name:  I  was  so  dis- 
turbed by  the  conviction  that  the  letter  came  from  Agnes. 
However,  I  told  him  I  was  T.  Copperfield,  Esquire,  and  he 
believed  it,  and  gave  me  the  letter,  which  he  said  required 
an  answer.  I  shut  him  out  on  the  landing  to  wait  for  the 
answer,  and  went  into  my  chambers  again,  in  such  a  nervous 
state  that  I  was  fain  to  lay  the  letter  down  on  my  breakfast- 
table,  and  familiarize  myself  with  the  outside  of  it  a  little, 
before  I  could  resolve  to  break  the  seal. 


362  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  found,  when  I  did  open  It,  that  it  was  a  very  kind  note, 
containing  no  reference  to  my  condition  at  the  theatre.  All 
it  said,  was,  "My  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  staying  at  the 
house  of  papa's  agent,  Mr.  Waterbrook,  in  Ely-place, 
Holborn.  Will  you  come  and  see  me  to-day,  and  at  any 
time  you  like  to  appoint?  Ever  yours  affectionately, 
Agnes." 

It  took  me  such  a  long  time  to  write  an  answer  at  all  to 
my  satisfaction,  that  I  don't  know  what  the  ticket-porter  can 
have  thought,  unless  he  thought  I  was  learning  to  write.  I 
must  have  written  half  a  dozen  answers  at  least.  I  began 
one,  "  How  can  I  ever  hope,  my  dear  Agnes,  to  efface  from 
your  remembrance  the  disgusting  impression " — there  I 
didn't  like  it,  and  then  I  tore  it  up.  I  began  another, 
I*  Shakespeare  has  observed,  my  dear  Agnes,  how  strange  it 
is  that  a  man  should  put  an  enemy  into  his  mouth  " — that 
reminded  me  of  Markham,  and  it  got  no  farther.  I  even 
tried  poetry.  I  began  one  note,  in  a  six-syllable  line,  "  Oh 
do  not  remember  " — but  that  associated  itself  with  the  5th 
of  November,  and  became  an  absurdity.  After  many  at- 
tempts, I  wrote,  *'  My  dear  Agnes.  Your  letter  is  like  you, 
and  what  could  I  say  of  it  that  would  be  higher  praise  than 
that?  I  will  come  at  four  o'clock.  Affectionately  and  sor- 
rowfully, T.  C."  With  this  missive  (which  I  was  in  twenty 
minds  at  once  about  recalling,  as  soon  as  it  was  out  of  my 
hands)  the  ticket-porter  at  last  departed. 

If  the  day  were  half  as  tremendous  to  any  other  profes- 
sional gentleman  in  Doctors*  Commons  as  it  was  to  me,  I 
sincerely  believe  he  made  some  expiation  for  his  share  in 
that  rotten  old  ecclesiastical  cheese.  Although  I  left  the 
office  at  half-past  three,  and  was  prowling  about  the  place 
of  appointment  within  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  the  ap- 
pointed time  was  exceeded  by  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  ac- 
cording to  the  clock  of  St.  Andrew's,  Holborn,  before  I 
could  muster  up  sufficient  desperation  to  pull  the  private 
bell-handle  let  into  the  left-hand  door-post  of  Mr.  Water- 
brook's  house. 

The  professional  business  of  Mr  Waterbrook's  establish- 
ment was  done  on  the  ground- floor,  and  the  genteel  business 
(of  which  there  was  a  good  deal)  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
building.  I  was  shown  into  a  pretty  but  rather  close  draw- 
ing-room, and  there  sat  Agnes,  netting  a  purse. 

She  looked  so  quiet  and  good,  and  reminded  me  so  strongly 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  363 

of  my  airy  fresh  school  days  at  Canterbury,  and  the  sodden, 
smoky,  stupid  wretch  I  had  been  the  other  night,  that,  no- 
body being  by,  I  yielded  to  my  self-reproach  and  shame,  and 
^n  short,  made  a  fool  of  myself.  I  cannot  deny  that  I 
shed  tears.  To  this  hour  I  am  undecided  whether  it  was 
upon  the  whole  the  wisest  thing  I  could  have  done,  or  the 
most  ridiculous. 

"  If  i-t  had  been  any  one  but  you,  Agnes,"  said  I,  turning 
away  my  head,  "  I  should  not  have  minded  it  half  so  much. 
But  that  it  should  have  been  you  who  saw  me!  I  almost 
wish  I  had  been  dead  first." 

She  put  her  hand — its  touch  was  like  no  other  hand — up- 
on my  arm  for  a  moment;  and  I  felt  so  befriended  and  com- 
forted, that  I  could  not  help  moving  it  to  my  lips,  and  grate- 
fully kissing  it. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Agnes,  cheerfully.  "  Don't  be  unhappy, 
Trotwood.  If  you  cannot  confidently  trust  me,  whom 
will  you  trust?" 

"Ah,  Agnes!"  I  returned.     "You  are  my  good  angel!" 

She  smiled  rather  sadly,  I  thought,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  Agnes,  my  good  angel!     Always  my  good  angel!" 

"  If  I  were,  indeed,  Trotwood,"  she  returned,  "  there  is 
one  thing  that  I  should  set  my  heart  on  very  much." 

I  looked  at  her  inquiringly;  but  already  with  a  foreknowl- 
edge of  her  meaning. 

"On  warning  you,"  said  Agnes,  with  a  steady  glance, 
"against  your  bad  angel." 

"  My  dear  Agnes,"  I  began,  "  if  you  mean  St^erforth — " 

"  I  do,  Trotwood,"  she  returned. 

"  Then  Agnes,  you  wrong  him  very  much.  He  my  bad 
angel,  or  any  one's!  He  anything  but  a  guide,  a  support, 
and  a  friend  to  me!  My  dear  Agnes!  Now,  is  it  not  un- 
just, and  unlike  you,  to  judge  him  from  what  you  saw 
of  me  the  other  night?" 

"  I  do  not  judge  him  from  what  I  saw  of  you  the  other 
night,"  she  quietly  replied. 

"  From  what,  then?" 

"  From  many  things, — trifles  in  themselves,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  so  when  they  are  put  together.  I 
judge  him,  partly  from  your  account  of  him,  Trotwood,  and 
your  character,  and  the  influence  he  has  over  you." 

There  was  always  something  in  her  modest  voice  that 
seemed  to  touch  a  chord  within  me,  answering  to  that  sound 


364  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

alone.  It  was  always  earnest;  but  when  it  was  very  earnest, 
as  it  was  now,  there  was  a  thrill  in  it  that  quite  subdued  me. 
I  sat  looking  at  her  as  she  cast  her  eyes  down  on  her  work; 
X  sat  seeming  still  to  listen  to  her;  and  Steerforth,  in  spite 
of  all  my  attachment  to  him,  darkened  in  that  tone. 

"  It  is  very  bold  in  me,"  said  Agnes,  looking  up  again, 
"  who  have  lived  in  such  seclusion,  and  can  know  so  little 
of  the  world,  to  give  you  my  advice  so  confidently,  or  even 
to  have  this  strong  opinion.  But  I  know  in  what  it  is  en- 
gendered, Trotwood, — in  how  true  a  remembrance  of  our 
having  grown  up  together,  and  in  how  true  an  interest  in  all 
relating  to  you.  It  is  that  which  makes  me  bold.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  what  I  say  is  right.  I  am  quite  sure  it  is.  I  feel 
as  if  it  were  some  one  else  speaking  to  you,  and  not  I,  when 
I  caution  you  that  you  have  made  a  dangerous  friend." 

Again  I  looked  at  her,  again  I  listened  to  her  after  she 
was  silent,  and  again  his  image,  though  it  was  still  fixed  in 
my  heart,  darkened. 

"'  I  am  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect,"  said  Agnes, 
resuming  her  usual  tone,  after  a  little  while,  "  that  you  will, 
or  that  you  can,  at  once,  change  any  sentiment  that  has  be- 
come a  conviction  to  you;  least  of  all  a  sentiment  that  is 
rooted  in  your  trusting  disposition;  You  ought  not  hastily 
to  do  that.  I  only  ask  you,  Trotwood,  if  you  ever  think  of 
me — I  mean,"  with  a  quiet  smile,  for  I  was  going  to  inter- 
rupt her,  and  she  knew  why,  "  as  often  as  you  think  of  me — 
to  think  of  what  I  have  said.  Do  you  forgive  me  for  all 
this?" 

"  I  will  forgive  you,  Agnes,"  I  replied,  "  when  you  come 
to  do  Steerforth  justice,  and  to  like  him  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Not  until  then?"  said  Agnes. 

I  saw  a  passing  shadow  on  her  face  when  I  made  this 
mention  of  him,  but  she  returned  my  smile,  and  we  were 
again  as  unreserved  in  our  mutual  confidence  as  of  old. 

"  And  when,  Agnes,"  said  I,  "  will  you  forgive  me  the 
other  night?" 

**  When  I  recall  it,"  said  Agnes. 

She  would  have  dismissed  the  subject  so,  but  I  was  too 
full  of  it  to  allow  that,  and  insisted  on  telling  her  how  it 
happened  that  I  had  disgraced  myself,  and  what  chain  of 
accidental  circumstances  had  had  the  theatre  for  its  final 
link.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  me  to  do  this,  and  to  enlarge 
on  the  obligation  that  I  owed  to  Steerforth  for  his  care  of 
me  when  I  was  unable  to  take  care  of  myself. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  365 

"You  must  not  forget,"  said  Agnes,  calmly  changing  the 
conversation  as  soon  as  I  had  concluded,  "that  you  are 
always  to  tell  me,  not  only  when  you  fall  into  trouble,  but 
when  you  fall  in  love.  Who  has  succeeded  to  Miss  Lar- 
kins,  Trotwood?" 

"  No  one,  Agnes." 

"  Some  one,  Trotwood,"  said  Agnes,  laughing,  and  holding 
up  her  finger. 

"  No,  Agnes,  upon  my  word  !  There  is  a  lady,  certainly, 
at  Mrs.  Steerforth's  house,  who  is  very  clever,  and  whom  I 
like  to  talk  to — Miss  Dartle — but  I  don't  adore  her." 

Agnes  laughed  again  at  her  own  penetration,  and  told  me 
that  if  I  were  faithful  to  her  in  my  confidence  she  thought 
she  should  keep  a  little  register  of  my  violent  attachments, 
with  the  date,  duration,  and  termination  of  each,  like  the 
table  of  the  reigns  of  the  kings  and  queens,  in  the  History 
of  England.     Then  she  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  Uriah. 

"  Uriah  Heep  ?"  said  I.     "  No.     Is  he  in  London  ?" 

"  He  comes  to  the  office  down-stairs,  every  day,"  returned 
Agnes.  "  He  was  in  London  a  week  before  me.  I  am  afraid 
on  disagreeable  business,  Trotwood." 

"  On  some  business  that  makes  you  uneasy,  Agnes,  I  see," 
said  I.     ''  What  can  that  be  ?" 

Agnes  laid  aside  her  work,  and  replied,  folding  her  hands 
upon  one  another,  and  looking  pensively  at  me  out  of  those 
beautiful  soft  eyes  of  hers: 

"  I  believe  he  is  going  to  enter  into  partnership  with  papa." 

"  What  ?  .Uriah  ?  That  mean,  fawning  fellow,  worm  him- 
self into  such  promotion  ?"  I  cried,  indignantly.  "  Have  you 
made  no  remonstrance  about  it,  Agnes  !  Consider  what  a 
connection  it  is  likely  to  be.  You  must  speak  out.  You  must 
not  allow  your  father  to  take  such  a  mad  step.  You  must  pre- 
vent it,  Agnes,  while  there's  time." 

Still  looking  at  me,  Agnes  shook  her  head  while  I  was 
speaking  with  a  faint  smile  at  my  warmth:  and  then  replied: 

"  You  remember  our  last  conversation  about  papa  ?  It  was 
not  long  after  that — not  more  than  two  or  three  dayS'^-when 
he  gave  me  the  first  intimation  of  what  I  tell  you.  It  was 
sad  to  see  him  struggling  between  his  desire  to  represent  it 
to  me  as  a  matter  of  choice  on  his  part,  and  his  inability  to 
conceal  that  it  was  forced  upon  him.     I  felt  very  sorry." 

"  Forced  upon  him,  Agnes  !      Who  forces  it  upon  him  ?'* 

"Uriah,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "ha§ 


366  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

made  hiimself  indispensable  to  papa.  He  is  subtle  and  watch- 
ful. He  has  mastered  papa's  weaknesses,  fostered  them,  and 
taken  advantage  of  them,  until — to  say  all  that  I  mean  in  a 
word,  Trotwood,  until  papa  is  afraid  of  him." 

There  was  more  that  she  might  have  said;  more  that  she 
knew  or  that  she  suspected;  I  clearly  saw.  I  could  not  give 
her  pain  by  asking  her  what  it  was,  for  I  knew  that  she  with- 
held it  from  me  to  spare  her  father.  It  had  long  been  going 
on  to  this,  I  was  sensible:  yes,  I  could  not  but  feel,  on  the 
least  reflection,  that  it  had  been  going  on  to  this  for  a  long 
time.     I  remained  silent. 

"  His  ascendency  over  papa,"  said  Agnes,  "  is  very  great. 
He  professes  humility  and  gratitude — with  truth,  perhaps:  I 
hope  so — but  his  position  is  really  one  of  power,  and  I  fear 
he  makes  a  hard  use  of  his  power."  " 

I  said  he  was  a  hound,  which,  at  the  moment,  was  a  great 
satisfaction  to  me. 

"  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  as  the  time  when  papa  spoke  to 
me,"  pursued  Agnes,  "  he  had  told  papa  that  he  was  going 
away;  that  he  was  very  sorry,  and  unwilling  to  leave,  but 
that  he  had  better  prospects.  Papa  was  very  much  depressed 
then,  and  more  bowed  down  by  care  than  ever  you  or  I  have 
seen  him;  but  he  seemed  relieved  by  this  expedient  of  the 
partnership,  though  at  the  same  time  he  seemed  hurt  by  it 
and  ashamed  of  it." 

"  And  how  did  you  receive  it,  Agnes  .''" 

"I  did,  Trotwood,"  she  replied,  "  what  I  hope  was  right. 
Feeling  sure  that  it  was  necessary  for  papa's  peace  that  the 
sacrifice  should  be  made,  I  entreated  him  to  make  it.  I  said 
it  would  lighten  the  load  of  his  life — I  hope  it  will  !  and 
that  it  would  give  me  increased  opportunities  of  being  his 
companion.  Oh,  Trotwood  !"  cried  Agnes,  putting  her 
hands  before  her  face,  as  her  tears  started  on  it,  "  I  almost 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  papa's  enemy,  instead  of  his  loving 
child.  For  I  know  how  he  has  altered,  in  his  devotion  to 
me.  I  know  how  he  has  narrowed  the  circle  of  his  sympa- 
thies and  duties,  in  the  concentration  of  his  whole  mind 
upon  me.  I  know  what  a  multitude  of  things  he  has  shut 
out  for  my  sake,  and  how  his  anxious  thoughts  of  me  have 
shadowed  his  life,  and  weakened  his  strength  and  energy,  by 
turning  them  always  upon  one  idea.  If  I  could  ever  set  this 
right.  If  I  could  ever  work  out  his  restoration,  as  I  have 
^0  innocently  been  the  cause  of  his  decline  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  367 

I  had  never  before  seen  Agnes  cry.  I  had  seen  tears  in 
her  eyes  when  I  had  brought  new  honors  home  from  school, 
and  I  had  seen  them  there  when  we  last  spoke  about  her 
father,  and  I  had  seen  her  turn  her  gentle  head  aside  when 
we  took  leave  of  one  another;  but  I  had  never  seen  her 
grieve  like  this.  It  made  me  so  sorry  that  I  could  only  say, 
in  a  foolish,  helpless  manner,  "  Pray,  Agnes,  don't !  Don't, 
my  dear  sister !" 

But  Agnes  was  too  superior  to  me  in  character  and  pur- 
pose, as  I  know  well  now,  whatever  I  might  know  or  not 
know  then,  to  be  long  in  need  of  my  entreaties.  The  beau- 
tiful, calm  manner,  which  makes  her  so  different  in  my  re- 
membrance from  everybody  else,  came  back  again,  as  if  a 
cloud  had  passed  from  a  serene  sky. 

"  We  are  not  likely  to  remain  alone  much  longer,"  said 
Agnes,  "  and  while  I  have  an  opportunity,  let  me  earnestly 
entreat  you,  Trotwood,  to  be  friendly  to  Uriah,  Don't  re- 
pel him.  Don't  resent  (as  I  think  you  have  a  general  dis- 
position to  do)  what  may  be  uncongenial  to  you  in  him. 
He  may  not  deserve  it,  for  we  know  no  certain  ill  of  him. 
In  any  case,  think  first  of  papa  and  me  !" 

Agnes  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for  the  room-door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Waterbrook  who  was  a  large  lady — or  who  wore  a 
large  dress:  I  don't  exactly  know  which,  for  I  don't  know 
which  was  dress  and  which  was  lady — came  sailing  in.  I 
had  a  dim  recollection  of  having  seen  her  at  the  theatre,  as 
if  I  had  seen  her  in  a  pale  magic  lantern;  but  she  appeared 
to  remember  me  perfectly,  and  still  to  suspect  me  of  being 
in  a  state  of  intoxication. 

,  Finding  by  degrees,  however,  that  I  was  sober,  and'(I 
hope)  that  I  was  a  modest  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Water- 
brook  softened  towards  me  considerably,  and  inquired, 
firstly,  if  I  went  much  into  the  parks,  and  secondly,  if  I  went 
much  into  society.  On  my  replying  to  both  these  questions 
in  the  negative,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  fell  again  in  her 
good  opinion;  but  she  concealed  the  fact  gracefully,  and  in- 
vited me  to  dinner  next  day.  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
took  my  leave;  making  a  call  on  Uriah  in  the  office  as  I 
went  out,  and  leaving  a  card  for  him  in  his  absence. 

When  I  went  to  dinner  next  day,  and,  on  the  street-door 
being  opened,  plunged  into  a  vapor-bath  of  haunch  of  mut- 
*-on,  I  divined  that  I  was  not  the  only  guest:  for  I  im- 
mediately identified  the  ticket-porter  in  disguise,  assisting  the 


368  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

family  servant,  and  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  carry 
up  my  name.  He  looked,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  when  he 
asked  me  for  it  confidentially,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  me 
before;  but  well  did  I  know  him,  and  well  did  he  know  me. 
Conscience  made  cowards  of  us  both. 

I  found  Mr.  Waterbrook  to  be  a  middle-aged  gentleman, 
with  a  short  throat,  and  a  good  deal  of  shirt-collar,  who  only 
wanted  a  black  nose  to  be  the  portrait  of  a  pug-dog.  He 
told  me  he  was  happy  to  have  the  honor  of  making  my  ac- 
quaintance; and  when  I  had  paid  my  homage  to  Mrs. 
Waterbrook,  presented  me,  with  much  ceremony,  to  a  very 
awful  lady  in  a  black  velvet  dress,  and  a  great  black  velvet 
hat,  whom  I  remember  as  looking  like  a  near  relation  of 
Hamlet's — say  his  aunt. 

Mrs.  Henry  Spiker  was  this  lady's  name;  and  her  husband 
was  there  too:  so  cold  a  man,  that  his  head,  instead  of  be- 
ing gray,  seemed  to  be  sprinkled  with  hoar-frost.  Immense 
deference  was  shown  to  the  Henry  Spikers,  male  and  female; 
which  Agnes  told  me  was  on  account  of  Mr.  Henry  Spiker 
being  solicitor  to  something  or  to  somebody,  I  forget  what 
or  which,  remotely  connected  with  the  Treasury. 

I  found  Uriah  Heep  among  the  company,  in  a  suit  of 
black,  and  in  deep  humility.  He  told  me,  when  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  that  he  was  proud  to  be  noticed  by  me,  and 
that  he  really  felt  obliged  to  me  for  my  condescension.  I 
could  have  wished  he  had  been  less  obliged  to  me,  for  he 
hovered  about  me  in  his  gratitude  all  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing: and  whenever  I  said  a  word  to  Agnes,  was  sure,  with 
his  shadowless  eyes  and  cadaverous  face,  to  be  looking 
gauntly  down  upon  us  from  behind. 

There  were  other  guests — all  iced  for  the  occasion,  as  it 
struck  me,  like  the  wine.  But,  there  was  one  who  attracted 
my  attention  before  he  came  in,  on  account  of  my  hearing 
him  announced  as  Mr.  Traddles  !  My  mind  flew  back  to 
Salem  House;  and  could  it  be  Tommy,  I  thought,  who  used 
to  draw  the  skeletons  ! 

I  looked  for  Mr.  Traddles  with  unusual  interest.  He  was 
a  sober,  steady-looking  young  man  of  retiring  manners,  with 
a  comic  head  of  hair,  and  eyes  that  were  rather  wide  open; 
and  he  got  into  an  obscure  corner  so  soon,  that  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  making  him  out.  At  length  I  had  a  good  view 
of  him,  and  either  my  vision  deceived  me,  or  it  was  the  old 
unfortunate  Tommy. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  369 

I  made  my  way  to  Mr.  Waterbrook,  and  said,  that  I  believed 
1  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  an  old  schoolfellow  there. 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Mr.  Waterbrook,  surprised.  "  You  are 
too  young  to  have  been  to  school  with  Mr.  Henry  Spiker  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  him !"  I  returned.  ".I  mean  the 
gentleman  named  Traddles." 

"  Oh  !  Aye,  aye  !  Indeed  !"  said  my  host,  with  much 
diminished  interest.     "  Possibly." 

"  If  it's  really  the  same  person,"  said  I,  glancing  towards 
him,  "  it  was  at  a  place  called  Salem  House  where  we  were 
together,  and  he  was  an  excellent  fellow." 

"  Oh  yes.  Traddles  is  a  good  fellow,"  returned  my  host, 
nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of  toleration.  "  Traddles  is 
quite  a  good  fellow." 

"  It's  a  curious  coincidence,"  said  I. 

"  It  is  really,"  returned  my  host,  "  quite  a  coincidence, 
that  Traddles  should  be  here  at  all:  as  Traddles  was  only 
invited  this  morning,  when  the  place  at  table,  intended  to 
be  occupied  by  Mrs.  Henry  Spiker's  brother,  became  vacant, 
in  consequence  of  his  indisposition.  A  very  gentlemanly 
man,  Mrs.  Henry  Spiker's  brother,  Mr.  Copper  field." 

I  murmured  an  assent,  which  was  full  of  feeling,  consider- 
ing that  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  him;  and  I  inquired 
what  Mr.  Traddles  was  by  profession. 

"  Traddles,"  returned  Mr.  Waterbrook,  "  is  a  young  man 
reading  for  the  bar.  Yes.  He  is  quite  a  good  fellow — 
nobody's  enemy  but  his  own." 

"  Is  he  his  own  enemy  ?"  said  I,  sorry  to  hear  this. 

"Well,"  returned  Mr.  Waterbrook,  pursing  up  his  mouth, 
and  playing  with  his  watch-chain,  in  a  comfortable,  pros- 
perous sort  of  way.  "  I  should  say  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  stand  in  their  own  hght.  Yes,  I  should  say  he  would 
never,  for  example,  be  worth  five  hundred  pound.  Trad- 
dles was  recommended  to  me,  by  a  professional  friend.  Oh 
yes.  Yes.  He  has  a  kind  of  talent  for  drawing  briefs  and 
stating  a  case  in  writing  plainly.  I  am  able  to  throw  some- 
thing in  Traddles's  way  in  the  course  of  the  year;  something 
— for  him — considerable.     Oh  yes.     Yes." 

I  was  much  impressed  by  the  extremely  comfortable  and 
satisfied  manner  in  which  Mr.  Waterbrook  delivered  himself 
of  this  little  word  "  Yes,"  every  now  and  then.  There  was 
wonderful  expression  in  it.  It  completely  conveyed  the  idea 
of  a  man  who  had  been  born,  not  to  say  with  a  silver  spoon, 
but  with  a  scaling-ladder,  and  ha(J  ^one  on  mouiitin^  all  the 


370  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

heights  of  life  one  after  another,  until  now  he  looked  from 
the  top  of  the  fortifications  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher 
and  a  patron  on  the  people  down  in  the  trenches. 

My  reflections  on  this  theme  were  still  in  progress  when 
dinner  was  announced.  Mr.  Waterbrook  went  down  with 
Hamlet's  aunt.  Mr.  Henry  Spiker  took  Mrs.  Waterbrook. 
Agnes,  whom  I  should  have  liked  to  take  myself,  was  given 
to  a  simpering  fellow  with  weak  legs.  Uriah,  Traddles,  and 
I,  as  the  junior  part  of  the  company,  went  down  last  how  we 
could.  I  was  not  so  vexed  at  losing  Agnes  as  I  might  have 
been,  since  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  making  myjielf 
known  to  Traddles  on  the  stairs,  who  greeted  me  with  great 
fervor:  while  Uriah  writhed  with  such  obtrusive  satisfaction 
and  self-abasement,  that  I  could  gladly  have  pitched  him 
over  the  banisters. 

Traddles  and  I  were  separated  at  the  table,  being  billeted 
in  two  remote  corners:  he  in  the  glare  of  a  red  velvet  lady; 
I,  in  the  gloom  of  Hamlet's  aunt.  The  dinner  was  very 
long,  and  the  conversation  was  about  the  Aristocracy — and 
Blood.  Mrs.  Waterbrook  repeatedly  told  us,  that  if  she  had 
a  weakness,  it  was  Blood. 

It  occurred  to  me  several  times  that  we  should  have  got 
on  better  if  we  had  not  been  quite  so  genteel.  We  were  so 
exceedingly  genteel,  that  our  scope  was  very  limited.  A 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gulpidge  were  of  the  party,  who  had  some- 
thing to  do  at  second-hand  (at  least  Mr.  Gulpidge  had)  with 
the  law  business  of  the  Bank;  and  what  with  the  Bank,  and 
what  with  the  Treasury,  we  were  as  exclusive  as  the  Court 
Circular.  To  mend  the  matter,  Hamlet's  aunt  had  the 
family  failing  of  indulging  in  soliloquy,  and  held  forth  in  a 
desultory  manner,  by  herself,  on  every  topic  that  was  intro- 
duced. These  were  few  enough  to  be  sure;  but  as  we  always 
fell  back  upon  Blood  she  had  as  wide  a  field  for  abstract  spec- 
ulation as  her  nephew  himself. 

We  might  have  been  a  party  of  Ogres,  the  conversation 
assumed  such  a  sanguine  complexion. 

"  I  confess  I  am  of  Mrs,  Waterbrook's  opinion,"  said  Mr. 
Waterbrook,  with  his  wine-glass  at  his  eye.  "  Other  things 
are  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  give  me  Blood  !" 

"  Oh  !  There  is  nothing,"  observed.  Hamlet's  aunt,  "  so 
satisfactory  to  one  !  There  is  nothing  that  is  so  much  one's 
beau-ideal  of — of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  speaking  generally, 
''^here  are  some  low^  piinds  (not  many,  I  am  happy  to  be- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  371 

lieve,  but  there  are  somi)  that  would  prefer  to  do  what  / 
should  call  bow  down  before  idols.  Positively  Idols  !  Be- 
fore services,  intellect,  and  so  on.  But  these  are  intangible 
points.  Blood  is  not  so.  We  see  Blood  in  a  nose,  and  we 
know  it.  We  meet  with  it  in  a  chin,  and  we  say,  *  There  it 
is  !  That's  Blood  !'  It  is  an  actual  matter  of  fact.  We 
point  it  out.     It  admits  of  no  doubt." 

The  simpering  fellow  with  the  weak  legs,  who  had  taken 
Agnes  down,  stated  the  question  more  decisively  yet,  I 
thought. 

"  Oh,  you  know,  deuce  take  it,"  said  this  gentleman,  look- 
ing round  the  board  with  an  imbecile  smile,  "  we  can't  fore- 
go Blood,  you  know.  We  must  have  Blood,  you  know. 
Some  young  fellows,  you  know,  may  be  a  little  behind  their 
station,  perhaps,  in  point  of  education  and  behavior,  and 
may  go  a  little  wrong,  you  know,  and  get  themselves  and 
other  people  into  a  variety  of  fixes — and  all  that — but  deuce 
take  it,  it's  delightful  to  reflect  that  they've  got  Blood  in 
'em  !  Myself,  I'd  rather  at  any  time  be  knocked  down  by 
a  man  who  had  got  Blood  in  him,  than  I'd  be  picked  up  by 
a  man  who  hadn't  !" 

This  sentiment,  as  compressing  the  general  question  into 
a  nut-shell,  gave  the  .utmost  satisfaction,  and  brought  the 
gentleman  into  great  notice  until  the  ladies  retired.  After 
that,  I  observed  that  Mr.  Gulpidge  and  Mr.  Henry  Spiker, 
who  had  hitherto  been  very  distant,  entered  into  a  defensive 
alliance  against  us,  the  common  enemy,  and  exchanged  a 
mysterious  dialogue  across  the  table  for  our  defeat  and 
overthrow. 

"  That  affair  of  the  first  bond  for  four  thousand  five  hun- 
dred pounds  has  not  taken  the  course  that  was  expected, 
Gulpidge,"  said  Mr.  Henry  Spiker. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  D.  of  A.'s  ?"  said  Mr.  Spiker. 

"  The  C.  of  B.'s,"  said  Mr.  Gulpidge. 

Mr.  Spiker  raised  his  eye-brows,  and  looked  much  con- 
cerned. 

"  When  the  question  was  referred  to  Lord — I  needn't 
name  him,"  said  Mr  Gulpidge,  checking  himself. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Spiker,  *'  N." 

Mr.  Gulpidge  darkly  nodded — "  was  referred  to  him,  his 
answer  was,  *  Money,  or  no  release.'  " 

"  Lord  bless  my  soul  !"  cried  Mr.  Spiker. 

"  *  Money,  or  no  release,'  "  repeated  Mr.  Gulpidge  firmly, 
"  The  next  in  reversion — ^you  understand  me  ?" 


372  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  K."  said  Mr.  Spiker,  with  ominous  look. 
" — K.  then  positively  refused  to  sign.     He  was  attended 
at  Newmarked  for  that  purpose,  and  he  point-blank  refused 
to  do  it." 

Mr.  Spiker  was  so  interested  that  he  became  quite  stony. 
"  So  the  matter  rests  at  this  hour,"  said  Mr.  Gulpidge, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  Our  friend  Water- 
brook  will  excuse  me  if  I  forbear  to  explain  myself  gener- 
ally, on  account  of  the  magnitude  of  the  interests 
involved." 

Mr.  Waterbrook  was  only  too  happy,  as  it  appeared  to 
me,  to  have  such  interests  and  such  names  even  hinted  at 
across  his  table.  He  assumed  an  expression  of  gloomy 
intelligence  (though  I  am  persuaded  he  knew  no  more  about 
the  discussion  than  I  did),  and  highly  approved  of  the 
discretion  that  had  been  observed.  Mr.  Spiker,  after  the 
receipt  of  such  a  confidence,  naturally  desired  to  favor  his 
friend  with  a  confidence  of  his  own;  therefore  the  foregoing 
dialogue  was  succeeded  by  another,  in  which  it  was  Mr. 
Gulpidge's  turn  to  be  surprised,  and  that  by  another,  in 
which  the  surprise  came  round  to  Mr.  Spiker's  turn  again, 
and  so  on,  turn  and  turn  about.  All  this  time  we,  the  out- 
siders, remained  oppressed  by  the  tremendous  interests  in- 
volved in  the  conversation;  and  our  host  regarded  us  with 
pride,  as  the  victims  of  a  salutary  awe  and  astonishment. 

I  was  very  glad  indeed  to  get  up-stairs  to  Agnes,  and  to 
walk  with  her  in  a  corner,  and  to  introduce  Traddles  to  her, 
who  was  shy,  but  agreeable,  and  the  same  good-natured 
creature  still.  As  he  was  obliged  to  leave  early,  on  account 
of  going  away  next  morning  for  a  month,  I  had  not  nearly 
so  much  conversation  with  him  as  I  could  have  wished;  but 
we  exchanged  addresses,  and  promised  ourselves  the  pleasure 
of  another  meeting  when  he  should  come  back  to  town.  He 
was  greatly  interested  to  hear  that  I  knew  Steerforth,  and 
spoke  of  him  with  such  warmth  that  I  made  him  tell  Agnes 
what  he  thought  of  him.  But  Agnes  only  looked  at  me  the 
while,  and  very  slightly  shook  her  head  when  only  I  ob- 
served her. 

As  she  was  not  among  people  with  whom  I  believed  she 
could  be  very  much  at  home,  I  was  almost  glad  to  hear  that 
she  was  going  away  within  a  few  days,  though  I  was  sorry  at 
the  prospect  of  parting  from  her  again  so  soon.  This  caused 
me  to  remain  until  all  the  company  were  gone.     Conversing 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  37^ 

with  her,  and  hearing  her  sing,  was  such  a  delightful  re- 
minder to  me  of  my  happy  life  in  the  grave  old  house  she 
had  made  so  beautiful,  that  I  could  have  remained  there 
half  the  night;  but,  having  no  excuse  for  staying  any  longer, 
when  the  lights  of  Mr.  Waterbrook's  society  were  all  snuffed 
out,  I  took  my  leave  very  much  against  my  inclination.  I 
felt  then,  more  than  ever,  that  she  was  my  better  Angel;  and 
if  I  thought  of  her  sweet  face  and  placid  smile,  as  though 
they  had  shone  on  me  from  some  removed  being,  like  an 
Angel,  I  hope  I  thought  no  harm. 

I  have  said  that  the  company  were  all  gone;  but  I  ought 
to  have  excepted  Uriah,  whom  I  don't  include  in  that  de- 
nomination, and  who  had  never  ceased  to  hover  near  us.  He 
was  close  behind  me  when  I  went  down-stairs.  He  was  close 
beside  me,  when  I  walked  away  from  the  house,  slowly  fit- 
ting his  long  skeleton  fingers  into  the  still  longer  fingers  of 
a  great  Guy  Fawkes  pair  of  gloves. 

It  was  in  no  disposition  for  Uriah's  company,  but  in  the 
remembrance  of  the  entreaty  Agnes  had  made  to  me,  that  I 
asked  him  if  he  would  come  home  to  my  rooms,  and  have 
some  coffee. 

*'  Oh,  really,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  rejoined, — "  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Mister  Copperfield,  but  the  other  comes  so 
natural, — I  don't  like  that  you  should  put  a  constraint  upon 
yourself  to  ask  a  numble  person  like  me  to  your  ouse." 

"  There  is  no  constraint  in  the  case,"  said  I.  "  Will  you 
come  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to,  very  much,"  replied  Uriah,  with  a  writhe. 

"  Well,  then,  come  along  !"  said  I. 

I  could  not  help  being  rather  short  with  him,  but  he  ap- 
peared not  to  mind  it.  We  went  the  nearest  way,  without 
conversing  much  upon  the  road;  and  he  was  so  humble  in 
respect  of  those  scarecrow  gloves,  that  he  was  still  putting 
them  on,  and  seemed  to  have  made  no  advance  in  that  labor, 
when  we  got  to  my  place. 

I  led  him  up  the  dark  stairs,  to  prevent  his  knocking  his 
head  against  anything,  and  really  his  damp  cold  hand  felt 
so  like  a  frog  in  mine,  that  I  was  tempted  to  drop  it  and  run 
away.  Agnes  and  hospitality  prevailed,  however,  and  I 
conducted  him  to  my  fireside.  When  I  lighted  my  candles, 
he  fell  into  meek  transports  with  the  room  that  was  revealed 
to  him;  and  when  I  heated  the  coffee  in  an  unassuming 
blcck-tin  vessel,  in  which  Mrs.  Crupp  delighted  to  prepare 


374  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

it  (chiefly,  1  believe,  because  it  was  not  intended  for  the 
purpose,  being  a  shaving-pot,  and  because  there  was  a 
patent  invention  of  great  price  mouldering  away  in  the  pan- 
try), he  professed  so  much  emotion,  that  1  could  joyfully 
have  scalded  him. 

"  Oh,  really,  Master  Copperfield, — I  mean  Mister  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah,  "to  see  you  waiting  upon  me  is  what  I 
never  could  have  expected  !  But,  one  way  and  another,  so 
many  things  happen  to  me  which  I  never  could  have  ex- 
pected, I  am  sure,  in  my  umble  station,  that  it  seems  to  rain 
blessings  on  my  ed.  You  have  heard  something,  I  des-say, 
of  a  change  in  my  expectations.  Master  Copperfield,  /  should 
say,  Mister  Copperfield  ?" 

As  he  sat  on  my  sofa,  with  his  long  knees  drawn  up  under 
his  coffee-cup,  his  hat  and  gloves  upon  the  ground  close  to 
him,  his  spoon  going  softly  round  and  round,  his  shadow- 
less red  eyes,  which  looked  as  if  they  had  scorched  their 
lashes  off,  turned  towards  me  without  looking  at  me,  the  dis- 
agreeable dints  I  have  formerly  described  in  his  nostrils 
coming  and  going  with  his  breath,  and  a  snaky  undulation 
pervading  his  frame  from  his  chin  to  his  boots,  I  decided  in 
my  own  mind  that  I  disliked  him  intensely.  It  made  me 
very  uncomfortable  to  have  him  for  a  guest,  for  I  was  young 
then,  and  unused  to  disguise  what  I  so  strongly  felt. 

"  You  have  heard  something,  I  des-say,  of  a  change  in  my 
expectations.  Master  Copperfield, —  I  should  say  Mister  Cop- 
perfield ?"  observed  Uriah. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "something." 

"Ah!  I  thought  Miss  Agnes  would  know  of  it!"  he  quietly 
returned.  "I'm  glad  to  find  Miss  Agnes  knows  of  it.  Oh, 
thank  you.  Master — Mister  Copperfield!" 

I  could  have  thrown  my  bootjack  at  him  (it  lay  ready  on 
the  rug),  for  having  entrapped  me  into  the  disclosure  of 
anything  concerning  Agnes,  however  immaterial.  But  I  only 
drank  my  coffee. 

"  What  a  prophet  you  have  shown  yourself.  Mister  Cop- 
perfield!" pursued  Uriah.  "Dear  me,  what  a  prophet  you 
have  proved  yourself  to  be!  Don't  you  remember  saying  to 
me  once,  that  perhaps  I  should  be  a  partner  in  Mr.  Wick- 
field's  business,  and  perhaps  it  might  be  Wickfield  and  Heep! 
You  may  not  recollect  it;  but  when  a  person  is  umble.  Mas- 
ter Copperfield,  a  person  treasures  such  things  upj" 

"  I  recollect  talking  about  it,"  said  I,  "though  I  certainly 
did  not  think  it  very  likely  then^" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  375 

"Oh!  \j\io  would  have  thought  it  likely,  Mister  Copper- 
field!"  returned  Uriah,  enthusiastically,  "I  am  sure  I  didn't 
myself.  I  recollect  saying  with  my  own  lips  that  I  was 
much  too  umble.  So  I  considered  myself  really  and 
truly." 

He  sat,  with  that  carved  grin  on  his  face,  looking  at  the 
fire,  as  I  looked  at  him. 

"  But  the  umblest  persons.  Master  Copperfield,"  he  pre- 
sently resumed,  "  may  be  the  instruments  of  good.  I  am 
glad  to  think  I  have  been  the  instrument  of  good  to  Mr. 
Wickfield,  and  that  I  may  be  more  so.  Oh  what  a  worthy 
man  he  is.  Mister  Copperfield,  but  how  imprudent  he  has 
been!" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  I.  I  could  not  help  adding, 
rather  pointedly,  "  on  all  accounts." 

"  Decidedly  so.  Mister  Copperfield,"  replied  Uriah.  "  On 
all  accounts.  Miss  Agnes's  above  all!  You  don't  remem- 
ber your  own  eloquent  expressions,  Master  Copperfield;  but 
/  remember  how  you  said  one  day  that  everybody  must  ad- 
mire her,  and  how  I  thanked  you  for  it!  You  have  forgot 
that,  I  have  no  doubt,  Master  Copperfield?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  dryly. 

"Oh  how  glad  I  am,  you  have  not!"  exclaimeti  Uriah. 
"  To  think  that  you  should  be  the  first  to  kindle  the  sparks 
of  ambition  in  my  umble  breast,  and  that  you've  not  forgot 
it!  Oh! — Would  you  excuse  me  asking  for  a  cup  more 
coftee?" 

Something  in  the  emphasis  he  laid  upon  the  kindling  of 
those  sparks,  and  something  in  the  glance  he  directed  at  me 
as  he  said  it,  had  made  me  start  as  if  I  had  seen  him  illumi- 
nated by  a  blaze  of  light.  Recalled  by  his  request,  preferred 
in  quite  another  tone  of  voice,  I  did  the  honors  of  the 
shaving-pot;  but  I  did  them  with  an  unsteadiness  of  hand, 
a  sudden  sense  of  being  no  match  for  him,  and  a  perplexed 
suspicious  anxiety  as  to  what  he  might  be  going  to  say  next, 
which  I  felt  could  not  escape  his  observation. 

He  said  nothing  at  all.  He  stirred  his  coffee  round  and 
round,  he  sipped  it,  he  felt  his  chin  softly  with  his  grisly 
hand,  he  looked  at  the  fire,  he  looked  about  the  room,  he 
gasped  rather  than  smiled  at  me,  he  writhed  and  undulated 
about,  in  his  deferential  servility,  he  stirred  and  sipped  again, 
but  he  left  the  renewal  of  the  conversation  to  me. 

"  So,  Mr.  Wickfield,"  said  I,  at  last,  "  who  is  worth  fivt 


3^5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

hundred  of  you — or  me;"  for  my  life,  I  think  I  could  not 
have  helped  dividing  that  part  of  the  sentence  with  an  awk- 
ward jerk;  ''has  been  imprudent,  has  he,  Mr.  Heep?" 

"  Oh  very  imprudent  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,"  returned 
Uriah,  sighing  modestly.  "  Oh  very  much  so!  But  I  wish 
you'd  call  me  Uriah,  if  you  please.     It's  like  old  times." 

"Well!  Uriah,"  said  I,  bolting  it  out  with  some  difficulty. 

"Thank  you!"  he  returned,  with  fervor.  "Thank  you, 
Master  Copperfield!  It's  like  the  blowing  of  old  breezes,  or 
the  ringing  of  old  bellses,  to  hea.r  you  say  Uriah!  I  beg  your 
pardon.     Was  I  making  any  observation?" 

"About  Mr.  Wickfield,"'!  suggested. 

"Oh!  Yes,  truly,"  said  Uriah.  "Ah!  Great  imprudence 
Master  Copperfield!  It's  a  topic  that  I  wouldn't  touch  upon, 
to  any  soul  but  you.  Even  to  you  I  can  only  touch  upon  it, 
and  no  more.  If  any  one  else  had  been  in  my  place  during 
the  last  few  years,  by  this  time  he  would  have  had  Mr.  Wick- 
field (oh,  what  a  worthy  man  he  is.  Master  Copperfield,  too!) 
under  his  thumb.  Un — der — his  thumb,"  said  Uriah,  very 
slowly,  as  he  stretched  out  his  cruel-looking  hand  above  my 
table,  and  pressed  his  own  thumb  down  upon  it,  until  it 
shook,  and  shook  the  room. 

If  I  had  been  obliged  to  look  at  him  with  his  splay  foot 
on  Mr.  Wickfield's  head,  I  think  I  could  scarcely  have  hated 
him  more. 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  proceeded,  in  a 
soft  voice,  most  remarkably  contrasting  with  the  action  of 
his  thumb,  which  did  not  diminish  its  hard  pressure  in  the 
least  degree,  "  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  There  would  have 
been  loss,  disgrace,  I  don't  know  what  all.  Mr.  Wickfield 
knows  it.  I  am  the  umble  instrument  of  umbly  serving  him, 
and  he  puts  me  on  an  eminence  I  hardly  could  have  hoped 
to  reach.  How  thankful  should  I  be  !"  With  his  face 
turned  towards  me,  as  he  finished,  but  without  looking  at 
me,  he  took  his  crooked  thumb  off  the  spot  where  he  had 
planted  it,  and  slowly  and  thoughtfully  scraped  his  lank 
jaw  with  it,  as  if  he  were  shaving  himself. 

I  recollect  well  how  indignantly  my  heart  beat  as  I  saw 
his  crafty  face,  with  the  appropriately  red  light  of  the  fire 
upon  it,  prepariitg  for  something  else. 

"  Master  Copperfield,"  he  began — "  but  am  I  keeping 
you  up  ?" 

"  You  are  not  keeping  me  up.     I  generally  go  to  bed  late." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  377 

"  Thank  you,  Master  Copperfield  !  I  have  risen  from  my 
umble  station  since  first  you  used  to  address  me,  it  is  true; 
but  I  am  umble  still.  I  hope  I  never  shall  be  otherwise 
than  umble.  You  will  not  think  the  worse  of  my  umbleness, 
if  I  make  a  little  confidence  to  you,  Master  Copperfield? 
Will  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  I,  with  an  effort. 

"  Thank  you  !"  He  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  began  wiping  the  palms  of  his  hands.  "  Miss  Agnes, 
Master  Copperfield — " 

"  Well,  Uriah  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  pleasant  to  be  called  Uriah,  spontaneously,"  he 
cried  and  gave  himself  a  jerk,  like  a  convulsive'fish.  *'  You 
thought  her  looking  very  beautiful  to-night,  Master  Copper- 
field?" 

"  I  thought  her  looking  as  she  always  does:  superior,  in 
all  respects,  to  every  one  around  her,"  I  returned. 

"Oh,  thank  you  I  It's  so  true  !"  he  cried.  "Oh,  thank 
you  very  much  for  that  !" 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  said,  loftily.  "  There  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  thank  me." 

"Why  that,  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah,  "is,  in  fact, 
the  confidence  that  I  am  going  to  take  the  liberty  of  repos- 
ing. Umble  as  I  am,"  he  wiped  his  hands  harder,  and 
looked  at  them  and  at  the  fire  by  turns,  "  umble  as  my 
mother  is,  and  lowly  as  our  poor  but  honest  roof  has  ever 
been,  the  image  of  Miss  Agnes  (I  don't  mind  trusting  you 
with  my  secret.  Master  Copperfield,  for  I  have  always  over- 
flowed towards  you  since  that  first  moment  I  had  the  plea- 
sure of  beholding  you  in  a  pony-shay)  has  been  in  my  breast 
for  years.  Oh,  Master  Copperfield,  with  what  a  pure  affec- 
tion do  I  love  the  ground  my  Agnes  walks  on  ?" 

I  believe  I  had  a  delirious  idea  of  seizing  the  red-hot 
poker  out  of  the  fire,  and  running  him  through  with  it.  It 
went  from  me  with  a  shock,  like  a  ball  fired  from  a  rifle; 
but  the  image  of  Agnes,  outraged  by  so  much  as  a  thought 
of  this  red-headed  animal's,  remained  in  my  mind  when  I 
looked  at  him  sitting  all  awry  as  if  his  mean  soul  griped  his 
body,  and  made  me  giddy.  He  seemed  to  swell  and  grow 
before  my  eyes;  the  room  seemed  full  of  the  echoes  of  his 
voice;  and  the  strange  feeling  (to  which,  perhaps,  no  one  is 
quite  a  stranger)  that  all  this  had  occurred  before,  at  some 
indefinite  time,  and  that  I  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say 
next,  took  possession  of  rae._ 


378  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

A  timely  observation  of  the  sense  of  power  that  there  was 
in  his  face,  did  more  to  bring  back  to  my  remembrance  the 
entreaty  of  Agnes,  in  its  full  force,  than  any  effort  I  could 
have  made.  I  asked  him,  with  a  better  appearance  of  com- 
posure than  I  could  have  thought  possible  a  minute  before, 
whether  he  had  made  his  feelings  known  to  Agnes. 

"  Oh,  no,  Master  Copperfield  !"  he  returned;  *'oh  dear, 
no  !  Not  to  any  one  but  you.  You  see  I  am  only  just 
emerging  from  my  lowly  station.  I  rest  a  good  deal  of  hope 
on  her  observing  how  useful  I  am  to  her  father  (for  I  trust 
to  be  very  useful  to  him,  indeed,  Master  Copperfield),  and 
how  I  smooth  the  way  for  him,  and  keep  him  straight.  She's 
so  much  attached  to  her  father.  Master  Copperfield  (oh 
what  a  lovely  thing  it  is  in  a  daughter  !),  that  I  think  she 
may  come,  on  his  account,  to  be  kind  to  me." 

I  fathomed  the  depth  of  the  rascal's  whole  scheme,  and 
understood  why  he  laid  it  bare. 

"  If  you'll  have  the  goodness  to  keep  my  secret.  Master 
Copperfield,"  he  pursued,  "  and  not,  in  general,  to  go  against 
me,  I  shall  take  it  as  a  particular  favor.  You  wouldn't 
wish  to  make  unpleasantness.  I  know  what  a  friendly 
heart  you've  got;  but  having  only  known  me  on  my  umble 
footing  (on  my  umblest,  I  should  say,  for  I  am  very  umble 
still),  you  might,  unbeknown,  go  against  me  rather,  with  my 
Agnes.  I  call  her  mine,  you  see.  Master  Copperfield. 
There's  a  song  that  says,  *  I'd  crowns  resign,  to  call  her 
mine!'     I  hope  to  do  it,  one  of  these  days." 

Dear  Agnes!  So  much  too  loving  and  too  good  for  any 
one  that  I  could  think  of,  was  it  possible  that  she  was  re- 
served to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  wretch  as  this! 

"  There's  no  hurry  at  present,  you  know.  Master  Copper- 
field,"  Uriah  proceeded,  in  his  slimy  way,  as  I  sat  gazing  at 
him,  with  this  thought  in  my  mind.  "  My  Agnes  is  very 
young  still;  and  mother  and  me  will  have  to  work  our  way 
upards,  and  make  a  good  many  new  arrangements  before  it 
would  be  quite  convenient.  So  I  shall  have  time  gradually 
to  make  her  familiar  with  my  hopes,  as  opportunities  offer. 
Oh,  I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  confidence! 
Oh,  it's  such  a  relief,  you  can't  think,  to  know  that  you  un- 
derstand our  situation,  and  are  certain  (as  you  wouldn't 
^vish  to  make  unpleasantness  in  the  family)  not  to  go 
against  me!" 

He  took  the  hand  which  I  dared  not  withhold,  and  hav- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  379 

tng  given   it   a  damp  squeeze,  referred  to  his  pale-faced 
watch. 

"Dear  me!"  he  said,  "it's  past  one.  The  moments  slip 
away  so,  in  the  confidence  of  old  times,  Master  Copper- 
field,  that  it's  almost  half-past  one!" 

I  answered  that  I  had  thought  it  was  later.  Not  that  I 
had  really  thought  so,  but  because  my  conversational  pow- 
ers were  effectually  scattered. 

*' Dear  me!"  he  said,  considering.  "  The  ouse  that  I  am 
stopping  at — a  sort  of  a  private  hotel  and  boarding  ouse. 
Master  Copperfield,  near  the  New  River  ed — will  have  gon& 
to  bed  these  two  hours." 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  returned,  "that  there  is  only  one  bed 
here,  and  that  I — " 

"  Oh,  don't  think  of  mentioning  beds.  Master  Copper- 
field!"  he  rejoined  ecstatically,  drawing  up  one  leg,  "  But 
would  you  have  any  objections  to  my  laying  down  before 
the  fire?" 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,"  I  said,  "  pray  take  my  bed,  and  I'll 
lie  down  before  the  fire." 

His  repudiation  of  this  offer  was  almost  shrill  enough,  in 
the  excess  of  its  surprise  and  humility,  to  have  penetrated 
to  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  then  sleeping,  I  suppose,  in  a 
distant  chamber,  situated  at  about  the  level  of  low  water 
mark,  soothed  in  her  slumbers  by  the  ticking  of  an  incor- 
rigible clock,  to  which  she  always  referred  me  when  we  had 
any  little  difference  on  the  score  of  punctuality,  and  which 
was  never  less  than  three  quarters  of  an  hour  too  slow,  and 
had  always  been  put  right  in  the  morning  by  the  best  author- 
ities. As  no  arguments  I  could  urge,  in  my  bewildered  con- 
dition, had  the  least  effect  upon  his  modesty  in  inducing 
him  to  accept  my  bed-room,  I  was  obliged  to  make  the  best 
arrangements  I  could,  for  his  repose  before  the  fire.  The 
mattress  of  the  sofa  (which  was  a  great  deal  too  short  for 
his  lank  figure),  the  sofa  pillows,  a  blanket,  the  table-cover,- 
a  clean  breakfast-cloth,  and  a  great  coat,  made  him  a  bed 
and  covering,  for  which  he  was  more  than  thankful.  Hav- 
ing lent  him  a  night-cap,  which  he  put  on  at  once,  and  in 
which  he  made  such  an  awful  figure  that  I  have  never 
worn  one  since,  I  left  him  to  his  rest. 

I  never  shall  forget  that  night.  I  never  shall  forget  how 
I  turned  and  tumbled;  how  I  wearied  myself  with  thinking 
about  Agnes  and  this   creature;   how   I   considered  what 


38o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

could  I  do,  and  what  ought  I  to  do;  how  I  could  come  to 
no  other  conclusion  than  that  the  best  course  for  her  peace, 
was  to  do  nothing,  and  to  keep  to  myself  what  I  had  heard. 
If  I  went  to  sleep  for  a  few  moments,  the  image  of  Agnes 
with  her  tender  eyes,  and  of  her  father  looking  fondly  on 
her,  as  I  had  so  often  seen  him  look,  arose  before  me  with 
appealing  faces,  and  filled  me  with  vague  terrors.  When  I 
awoke,  the  recollection  that  Uriah  was  lying  in  the  next 
room  sat  heavy  on  me  like  a  waking  night-mare,  and  op- 
pressed me  with  a  leaden  dread,  as  if  I  had  had  some  mean- 
er quality  of  devil  for  a  lodger. 

The  poker  got  into  my  dozing  thoughts  besides,  and 
wouldn't  come  out.  I  thought,  between  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, that  it  was  still  red  hot,  and  I  had  snatched  it  out  of  the 
fire,  and  run  him  through  the  body.  I  was  so  haunted  at 
last  by  the  idea,  though  I  knew  there  was  nothing  in  it,  that 
I  stole  into  the  next  room  to  look  at  him.  There  I  saw 
him,  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  legs  extending  to  I  don't 
know  where,  gurglings  taking  place  in  his  throat,  stoppages 
in  his  nose,  and  his  mouth  open  like  a  post-ofifice.  He  was 
so  much  worse  in  reality  than  in  my  distempered  fancy,  that 
afterwards  I  was  attracted  to  him  in  very  repulsion,  and 
could  not  help  wandering  in  and  out  every  half  hour  or  so, 
and  taking  another  look  at  him.  Still,  the  long,  long  night 
seemed  heavy  and  hopeless  as  ever,  and  no  promise  of  day 
was  in  the  murky  sky. 

When  I  saw  him  going  down  stairs  early  in  the  morning 
(for,  thank  Heaven!  he  would  not  stay  to  breakfast),  it  ap- 
peared to  me  as  if  the  night  was  going  away  in  his  person. 
When  I  went  out  to  the  Commons,  I  charged  Mrs.  Crupp 
with  particular  directions  to  leave  the  windows  open,  that 
my  sitting-room  might  be  aired,  and  purged  of  his  presence. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

I     FALL     INTO     CAPTIVITY, 

I  SAW  no  more  of  Uriah  Heep,  until  the  day  when  Agnes 
left  town.  I  was  at  the  coach  office  to  take  leave  of  her  and 
see  her  go;  and  there  was  he,  returning  to  Canterbury  by  the 
same  conveyance.  It  was  some  small  satisfaction  to  me  to 
pbserve  his  spare,  short-waisted,  high-shouldered,  mulberry- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  38t 

colored  great-coat  perched  up,  in  company  with  an  umbrella 
like  a  small  tent,  on  the  edge  of  the  back  seat  on  the  roof, 
while  Agnes  was,  of  course,  inside;  but  what  I  underwent 
in  my  efforts  to  be  friendly  with  him,  while  Agnes  looked 
on,  perhaps  deserved  that  little  recompense.  At  the  coach 
window,  as  at  the  dinner-party,  he  hovered  about  us  with- 
out a  moment's  intermission,  like  a  great  vulture;  gorging 
himself  on  every  syllable  that  I  said  to  Agnes,  or  Agnes 
said  to  me. 

In  the  state  of  trouble  into  which  his  disclosure  by  my 
fire  had  thrown  me,  I  had  thought  very  much  of  the  words 
Agnes  had  used  in  reference  to  the  partnership.  "  I  did 
what  I  hope  was  right.  Feeling  sure  that  it  was  necessary 
for  papa's  peace  that  the  sacrifice  should  be  made,  I  entreat- 
ed him  to  make  it."  A  miserable  foreboding  that  she  would 
yield  to,  and  sustain  herself  by,  the  same  feeling  in  refer- 
ence to  any  sacrifice  for  his  sake,  had  oppressed  me  ever 
since.  I  knew  how  she  loved  him.  I  knew  what  the  devo- 
tion of  her  nature  was.  I  knew  from  her  own  lips  that  she 
regarded  herself  as  the  innocent  cause  of  his  errors,  and  as 
owing  him  a  great  debt  she  ardently  desired  to  pay.  I  had 
no  consolation  in  seeing  how  different  she  was  from  this  de- 
testable Rufus,  with  the  mulberry-colored  great-coat,  for  I 
felt  that  in  the  very  difference  between  them,  in  the  self- 
denial  of  her  pure  soul  and  the  sordid  baseness  of  his,  the 
greatest  danger  lay.  All  this,  doubtless,  he  knew  thorough- 
ly, and  had,  in  his  cunning,  considered  well. 

Yet,  I  was  so  certain  that  the  prospect  of  such  a  sacrifice 
afar  off,  must  destroy  the  happiness  of  Agnes;  and  I  was  so 
sure,  from  her  manner,  of  its  being  unseen  by  her  then,  and 
having  cast  no  shadow  on  her  yet;  that  I  could  as  soon 
have  injured  her,  as  given  her  any  warning  of  what  impend- 
ed. Thus  it  was  that  we  parted  without  any  explanation: 
she  waving  her  hand  and  smiling  farewell  from  the  coach- 
window;  her  evil  genius  writhing  on  the  roof,  as  if  he  had 
her  in  his  clutches  and  triumphed. 

I  could  not  get  over  this  farewell  glimpse  of  them  for  a 
long  time.  When  Agnes  wrote  to  tell  me  of  her  safe  arrival, 
I  was  as  miserable  as  when  I  saw  her  going  away.  When- 
ever I  fell  into  a  thoughtful  state,  this  subject  was  sure  to 
present  itself,  and  all  my  uneasiness  was  sure  to  be  re- 
doubled. Hardly  a  night  passed  without  my  dreaming  of 
it.  It  became  a  part  of  my  life,  and  as  inseparable  from  my 
life  as  my. own  head. 


3^2  DAVm  COPPERFIELt). 

I  had  ample  leisure  to  refine  upon  my  uneasiness:  foi 
Steerforth  was  at  Oxford,  as  he  wrote  to  me,  and  when  I  was 
not  at  the  Commons,  I  was  very  much  alone.  I  believe  I 
had  at  this  time  some  lurking  distrust  of  Steerforth.  I  wrote 
him  most  affectionately  in  reply  to  his,  but  I  think  I  was 
glad,  upon  the  whole,  that  he  could  not  come  to  London 
just  then.  I  suspect  the  truth  to  be,  that  the  influence  of 
Agnes  was  upon  me,  undisturbed  by  the  sight  of  him;  and 
that  it  was  the  more  powerful  with  me,  because  she  had  so 
large  a  share  in  my  thoughts  and  interests. 

In  the  meantime,  days  and  weeks  slipped  away.  I  was 
articled  to  Spenlow  and  Jorkins.  I  had  ninety  pounds  a 
year  (exclusive  of  my  house-rent  and  sundry  collateral  mat- 
ters) from  my  aunt.  My  rooms  were  engaged  for  twelve 
months  certain:  and  though  I  still  found  them  dreary  of  an 
evening,  and  the  evenings  long,  I  could  settle  down  into  a 
state  of  equable  low  spirits,  and  resign  myself  to  coffee; 
which  I  seem,  on  looking  back,  to  have  taken  by  the 
gallon  at  about  this  period  of  my  existence.  At  about  this 
time,  too,  I  made  three  discoveries:  first,  that  Mrs.  Crupp 
was  a  martyr  to  a  curious  disorder  called  "  the  spazzums," 
which  was  generally  accompanied  with  inflammation  of  the 
nose,  and  required  to  be  constantly  treated  with  peppermint; 
secondly,  that  something  peculiar  in  the  temperature  of  the 
pantry,  made  the  brandy-bottles  burst  ;  thirdly,  that  I  was 
alone  in  the  world,  and  much  given  to  record  that  circum- 
stance in  fragments  of  English  versification. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  articled,  no  festivity  took  place, 
beyond  my  having  sandwiches  and  sherry  into  the  office  for 
the  clerks,  and  going  alone  to  the  theatre  at  night.  I  went 
to  see  "  The  Stranger  "  as  a  Doctors'  Commons  sort  of  play, 
and  was  so  dreadfully  cut  up,  that  I  hardly  knew  myself  in 
my  own  glass  when  I  got  home.  Mr.  Spenlow  remarked,  on 
this  occasion,  when  we  concluded  our  business,  that  he 
should  have  been  happy  to  have  seen  me  at  his  house  at 
Norwood  to  celebrate  our  becoming  connected,  but  for  his 
domestic  arrangements  being  in  some  disorder,  on  account 
of  the  expected  return  of  his  daughter  from  finishing  her 
education  in  Paris.  But  he  intimated,  that  when  she  came 
home  he  should  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  entertaining 
me.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  widower,  with  one  daughter,  and 
expressed  my  acknowledgments. 

Mr.  Spenlow  was  as  good  as  his  word.     In  a  week  or  two 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  3S3 

he  referred  to  this  engagement,  and  said  that  if  I  would  do 
him  the  favor  to  come  down  next  Saturday,  and  stay  till 
Monday,  he  would  be  extremely  happy.  Of  course  I  said 
I  would  do  him  the  favor;  and  he  was  to  drive  me  down  in 
his  phaeton,  and  to  bring  me  back. 

When  the  day  arrived,  my  very  carpet-bag  was  an  object 
of  veneration  to  the  stipendiary  clerks,  to  whom  the  house  at 
Norwood  was  a  secret  mystery.  One  of  them  informed  me 
that  he  heard  that  Spenlow  ate  entirely  off  plate  and  china; 
and  another[hinted  at  champagne  being  constantly  on  draught, 
after  the  usual  custom  of  table  beer.  The  old  clerk,  with 
the  wig,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Tiffey,  had  been  down  on 
business  several  times  in  the  course  of  his  career,  and  had 
on  each  occasion  penetrated  to  the  breakfast-parlor.  He 
described  it  as  an  apartment  of  the  most  sumptuous  nature, 
and  said  that  he  had  drunk  brown  East  India  sherry  there, 
of  a  quality  so  precious  as  to  make  a  man  wink. 

We  had  an  adjourned  cause  in  the  Consistory  that  day — 
about  excommunicating  a  baker  who  had  been  objecting  in 
a  vestry  to  a  paving  rate — and  as  the  evidence  was  just  twice 
the  length  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  according  to  a  calculation 
I  made,  it  was  rather  late  in  the  day  before  we  finished. 
However,  we  got  him  excommunicated  for  six  weeks,  and 
sentenced  in  no  end  of  costs;  and  then  the  baker's  proc- 
tor, and*the  judge,  and  the  advocates  on  both  sides  (who 
were  all  nearly  related),  went  out  of  town  together,  and  Mr. 
Spenlow  and  I  drove  away  in  the  phaeton. 

The  phaeton  was  a  very  handsome  affair;  the  horses  arched 
their  necks  and  lifted  their  legs  as  if  they  knew  they  be- 
longed to  Doctors'  Commons.  There  Vas  a  good  deal  of 
competition  in  the  Commons  on  all  points  of  display,  and  it 
turned  out  some  very  choice  equipages  then;  though  I  have 
always  considered,  and  always  shall  consider,  that  in  my  time 
the  great  article  of  composition  there  was  starch:  which  I 
think  was  worn  among  the  proctors  to  as  great  an  extent  as 
it  is  in  the  nature  of  man  to  bear. 

We  were  very  pleasant  going  down,  and  Mr.  Spenlow  gave 
me  some  hints  in  reference  to  my  profession.  He  said  it 
was  the  genteelest  profession  in  the  world,  and  must  on  no 
account  be  confounded  with  the  profession  of  a  solicitor: 
being  quite  another  sort  of  thing,  infinitely  more  exclusive, 
less  mechanical,  and  more  profitable.  We  took  things  much 
more  easily  in  the  Commons  than  they  could  be  taken  any- 


384  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

where  else,  he  observed,  and  that  set  us,  as  a  privileged 
class,  apart.  He  said  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  the  dis- 
agreeable fact,  that  we  were  chiefly  employed  by  solicitors; 
but  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  they  were  an  inferior  race 
of  men,  universally  looked  down  upon  by  all  proctors  of 
any  pretensions. 

I  asked  Mr.  Spenlow  what  he  considered  the  best  sort  of 
professional  business  ?  He  replied,  that  a  good  case  of  a 
disputed  will,  where  there  was  a  neat  little  estate  of  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  pounds,  was,  perhaps,  the  best  of  all.  In 
such  a  case,  he  said,  not  only  were  there  very  yjretty  pick- 
ings in  the  way  of  arguments  at  every  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings, and  mountains  upon  mountains  of  evidence  on  inter- 
rogatory and  counter-interrogatory  (to  say  nothing  of  an 
appeal  lying,  first  to  the  Delegates,  and  then  to  the  Lords); 
but^  the  costs  being  pretty  sure  to  come  out  of  the  estate  at 
last,  both  sides  went  at  it  in  a  lively  and  spirited  manner, 
and  expense  was  no  consideration.  Then  he  launched  into 
a  general  eulogium  on  the  Commons.  What  was  to  be  par- 
ticularly admired  (he  said)  in  the  Commons,  was  its  com- 
pactness! It  was  the  most  conveniently  organized  place  in 
the  world.  It  was  the  complete  idea  of  snugness.  It  lay  in 
a  nut-shell.  For  example  :  You  brought  a  divorce  case,  or 
a  restitution  case,  into  the  Consistory.  Very  good.  You 
tried  it  in  the  Consistory.  You  made  a  quiet  little  round 
game  of  it,  among  a  family  group,  and  you  played  it  out  at 
leisure.  Suppose  you  were  not  satisfied  with  the  Consis- 
tory, what  did  you  do  then?  Why,  you  went  into  the 
Arches.  What  was  the  Arches  ?  The  same  court,  in  the 
same  room,  with  the  same  bar,  and  the  same  practitioners,  but 
another  judge,  for  there  the  Consistory  judge  could  plead 
any  court-day  as  an  advocate.  Well,  you  played  your  round 
game  out  again.  'Still  you  were  not  satisfied.  Very  good. 
What  did  you  do  then  ?  Why,  you  went  to  the  Delegates. 
Who  were  the  Delegates  ?  Why,  the  Ecclesiastical  Dele- 
gates were  the  advocates  without  any  business,  who  had 
looked  on  at  the  round  game  when  it  was  playing  in  both 
courts,  and  had  seen  the  cards  shuffled,  and  cut,  and  played, 
and  had  talked  to  all  the  players  about  it,  and  now  came 
fresh,  as  judges,  to  settle  the  matter  to  the  satisfaction  of 
everybody!  Discontented  people  might  talk  of  corruption 
in  the  Commons,  closeness  in  the  Commons,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  reforming  the  Commons,  said  Mr.  Spenlow  solemnly, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  385 

in  conclusion;  but  when  the  price  of  wheat  per  bushel  had 
been  highest,  the  Commons  had  been  busiest;  and  a  man 
might  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  say  this  to  the  whole 
world, — "  Touch  the  Commons,  and  down  comes  the 
country!" 

I  listened  to  all  this  with  attention;  and  though,  I  must 
say,  I  had  my  doubts  whether  the  country  was  quite  as  much 
obliged  to  the  Commons  as  Mr.  Spenlow  made  out,  I  res- 
pectfully deferred  to  his  opinion.  That  about  the  price  of 
wheat  per  bushel,  I  modestly  felt  was  too  much  for  my 
strength,  and  quite  settled  the  question.  I  have  never,  to 
this  hour,  got  the  better  of  that  bushel  of  wheat.  It  has  re- 
appeared to  annihilate  me,  all  through  my  life,  in  connection 
with  all  kinds  of  subjects.  I  don't  know  now,  exactly,  what 
it  has  to  do  with  me,  or  what  right  it  has  to  crush  me,  on  an 
infinite  variety  of  occasions;  but  whenever  I  see  my  old 
friend  the  bushel  brought  in  by  the  head  and  shoulders  (as 
he  always  is,  I  observe),  I  give  up  a  subject  for  lost. 

This  is  a  digression,  /was  not  the  man  to  touch  the 
Commons,  and  bring  down  the  country.  I  submissively  ex- 
pressed, by  my  silence,  my  acquiescence  in  all  I  had  heard 
from  my  superior  in  years  and  knowledge;  and  we  talked 
about  "  The  Stranger,"  and  the  Drama,  and  the  pair  of 
horses,  until  we  came  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  gate. 

^J'here  was  a  lovely  garden  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house;  and 
though  that  was  not  the  best  time  of  the  year  for  seeing  a 
garden,  it  was  so  beautifully  kept,  that  I  was  quite  enchant- 
ed. There  was  a  charming  lawn,  there  were  clusters  of 
trees,  and  there  were  perspective  walks  that  I  could  just  dis- 
tinguish in  the  dark,  arched  over  with  trellis-work,  on  which 
shrubs  and  flowers  grew  in  the  growing  season.  "  Here 
Miss  Spenlow  walks  by  herself,"  I  thought.     "  Dear  me!" 

We  went  into  the  house,  which  was  cheerfully  lighted  up, 
and  into  a  hall  where  there  were  all  sorts  of  hats,  caps,  great- 
coats, plaids,  gloves,  whips,  and  walking-sticks.  *'  Where  is 
Miss  Dora  ?"  said  Mr.  Spenlow  to  the  servant.  "  Dora!"  I 
thought.     "  What  a  beautiful  name!" 

We  turned  into  a  room  near  at  hand  (I  think  it  was  the 
identical  breakfast-room,  made  memorable  by  the  brown 
East  Indian  Sherry),  and  I  heard  a  voice  say,  "  Mr.  Copper- 
field,  my  daughter  Dora,  and  my  daughter  Dora's  confiden- 
tial friend!"  It  was,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Spenlow's  voice,  but  I 
didn't  know  it,  and  I  didn't  care  whose  it  was.     All  was  over 


SS6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  a  moment.     I  had  fulfilled  my  destiny.     I  was  a  captirs 
and  a  slave.     I  loved  Dora  Spenlow  to  distraction! 

She  was  more  than  human  to  me.  She  was  a  Fairy,  a 
Sylph,  I  don't  know  what  she  was — anything  that  no  one  ever 
saw,  and  everything  that  everybody  ever  wanted.  I  was 
swallowed  up  in  an  abyss  of  love  in  an  instant.  There  was 
no  pausing  on  the  brink;  no  looking  down,  or  looking  back; 
I  was  gone,  headlong,  before  I  had  sense  to  say  a  word 
to  her. 

"/,"  observed  a  well-remembered  voice,  when  I  had 
bowed  and  murmured  something,  "  have  seen  Mr.  Copper- 
field  before." 

The  speaker  was  not  Dora.  No;  the  confidential  friend. 
Miss  Murdstone  ! 

I  don't  think  I  was  much  astonished.  To  the  best  of  my 
judgment,  no  capacity  of  astonishment  was  left  in  me. 
There  was  nothing  worth  mentioning  in  the  material  world, 
but  Dora  Spenlow,  to  be  astonished  about.  I  said,  "  How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Murdstone  ?  I  hope  you  are  well."  She 
answered,  "  Very  well."  I  said,  "  How  is  Mr.  Murdstone  ?" 
She  replied,  "  My  brother  is  robust,  I  am  obliged  to  you." 

Mr.  Spenlow,  who,  I  suppose,  had  been  surprised  to  see 
us  recognize  each  other,  then  put  in  his  word. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find,"  he  said,  ''  Copperfield,  that  you  and 
Miss  Murdstone  are  already  acquainted." 

"  Mr.  Copperfield  and  myself,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  with 
severe  composure,  "  are  connexions.  We  were  once  slightly 
acquainted.  It  was  in  his  childish  days.  Circumstances 
have  separated  us  since.     I  should  not  have  known  him." 

I  replied  that  I  should  have  known  her,  anywhere.  Which 
was  true  enough. 

"  Miss  Murdstone  has  had  the  goodness,"  said  Mr.  Spen- 
low to  me,  "  to  accept  the  office — if  I  may  so  describe  it— 
of  my  daughter  Dora's  confidential  friend.  My  daughter 
Dora  having,  unhappily,  no  mother.  Miss  Murdstone  is 
obliging  enough  to  become  her  companion  and  protector." 

A  passing  thought  occurred  to  me  that  Miss  Murdstone, 
like  the  pocket  instrument  called  a  life-preserver,  was  not 
so  much  designed  for  purposes  of  protection  as  of  assault. 
But  as  I  had  none  but  passing  thoughts  for  any  subject  save 
Dora,  I  glanced  at  her,  directly  afterwards,  and  was  think- 
ing that  I  saw,  in  her  prettily  pettish  manner,  that  she  was 
not  yery  much  inclined  to  be  particularly  confidential  to 


David  copperfield.  3S7 

her  companion  and  protector,  when  a  bell  rang,  which  Ma 
Spenlow  said  was  the  first  dinner-bell,  and  so  carried  me  off 
to  dress. 

The  idea  of  dressing  one's  self,  or  doing  any  thing  in  the 
way  of  action,  in  that  state  of  love,  was  a  little  too  ridicu- 
lous. I  could  only  sit  down  before  my  fire,  biting  the  key 
of  my  carpet-bag,  and  thinking  of  the  captivating,  girlish, 
bright-eyed,  lovely  Dora.  What  a  form  she  had,  what  a 
face  she  had,  what  a  graceful,  variable,  enchanting 
manner! 

The  bell  rang  again  so  soon  that  I  made  a  mere  scramble 
of  my  dressing,  instead  of  the  careful  operation  I  could 
have  wished  under  the  circumstances,  and  went  down  stairs. 
There  was  some  company.  Dora  was  talking  to  an  old 
gentleman  with  a  gray  head.  Gray  as  he  was — and  a  great- 
grandfather into  the  bargain,  for  he  said  so — I  was  madly 
jealous  of  him. 

What  a  state  of  mind  I  was  in  !  I  was  jealous  of  every- 
body. I  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  anybody  knowing  Mr. 
Spenlow  better  than  I  did.  It  was  torturing  to  me  to  heat 
them  talk  of  occurrences  in  which  I  had  had  no  share.  When 
a  most  amiable  person,  with  a  highly  polished  bald  head, 
asked  me  across  the  dinner-table,  if  that  were  the  first  oc- 
casion of  my  seeing  the  grounds,  I  could  have  done  any- 
thing to  him  that  was  savage  and  revengeful. 

I  don't  remember  who  was  there,  except  Dora.  I  have 
not  the  least  idea  what  we  had  for  dinner,  besides  Dora. 
My  impression  is,  that  I  dined  off  Dora,  entirely,  and  sent 
away  half-a-dozen  plates  untouched.  I  sat  next  to  her.  I 
talked  to  her.  She  had  the  most  delightful  little  voice,  the 
gayest  little  laugh,  the  pleasantest  and  most  fascinating  lit- 
tle ways,  that  ever  led  a  lost  youth  into  hopeless  slavery. 
She  was  rather  diminutive  altogether.  So  much  the  more 
precious,  I  thought. 

When  she  went  out  of  the  room  with  Miss  Murdstone 
(no  other  ladies  were  of  the  party),  I  fell  into  a  reverie,  only 
disturbed  by  the  cruel  apprehension  that  Miss  Murdstone 
would  disparage  me  to  her.  The  amiable  creature  with  the 
polished  head  told  me  a  long  story,  which  I  think  was  about 
gardening.  I  think  I  heard  him  say  "  my  gardener,"  sev- 
eral times.  I  seemed  to  pay  the  deepest  attention  to  him, 
but  I  was  wandering  in  a  garden  of  Eden  all  the  while,  with 
Dora. 


SSS  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

My  apprehensions  of  being  disparaged  to  the  object  of 
my  engrossing  affection  were  revived  when  we  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  by  the  grim  and  distant  aspect  of  Miss  Murd- 
stone.     But  I  was  relieved  of  them  in  an  unexpected  manner. 

"  David  Copperfield,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  beckoning  me 
aside  into  a  window.     "  A  word." 

I  confront&d  Miss  Murdstone  alone. 

"David  Copperfield,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  "I  need  not 
enlarge  upon  family  circumstances.  They  are  not  a  tempt- 
ing subject." 

*'  Far  from  it,  ma'am,"  I  returned. 

"  Far  from  it,"  assented  Miss  Murdstone.  "  I  do  not  wish 
to  revive  the  memory  of  past  differences,  or  of  past  out- 
rages. I  have  received  outrages  from  a  person — a  female,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  for  the  credit  of  my  sex — who  is  not  to  be 
mentioned  without  scorn  and  disgust;  and  therefore  I 
would  rather  not  mention  her." 

I  felt  very  fiery  on  my  aunt's  account;  but  I  said  it  would 
certainly  be  better,  if  Miss  Murdstone  pleased,  not  to  men- 
tion her.  I  could  not  hear  her  disrespectfully  mentioned,  I 
added,  without  expressing  my  opinion  in  a  decided  tone. 

Miss  Murdstone  shut  her  eyes,  and  disdainfully  inclined 
her  head;  then,  slowly  opening  her  eyes,  resumed: 

"  David  Copperfield,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  disguise  the 
fact,  that  I  formed  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  you  in  your 
childhood.  It  may  have  been  a  mistaken  one,  or  you  may 
have  ceased  to  justify  it.  That  is  not  the  question  between 
us  now.  I  belong  to  a  family  remarkable,  I  believe,  for  some 
firmness;  and  I  am  not  the  creature  of  circumstance  or 
change.  I  may  have  my  opinion  of  you.  You  may  have 
your  opinion  of  me." 

I  inclined  my  head,  in  my  turn. 

"But  it  is  not  necessary,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  "that 
these  opinions  should  come  into  collision  here.  Under  ex- 
isting circumstances,  it  is  as  well  on  all  accounts  that  they 
should  not.  As  the  chances  of  life  have  brought  us  together 
again,  and  may  bring  us  together  on  other  occasions,  I  would 
say  let  us  meet  here  as  distant  acquaintances.  Family  cir- 
cumstances are  a  sufficient  reason  for  our  only  meeting  on 
that  footing,  and  it  is  quite  unnecessary  that  either  of  us 
should  make  the  other  the  subject  of  remark.  Do  you  ap- 
prove of  this  ?" 

"  Miss   Murdstone,"  I   returned,  "  I   think  you  and  Mr. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  389 

Murdstone  used  me  very  cruelly,  and  treated  my  mother  with 
great  unkindness.  I  shall  always  think  so,  as  long  as  I  live. 
But  I  quite  agree  in  what  you  propose." 

Miss  Murdstone  shut  her  eyes  again,  and  bent  her  head. 
Then,  just  touching  the  back  of  my  hand  with  the  tips  of 
her  cold,  stiff  fingers,  she  walked  away,  arranging  the  little 
fetters  on  her  wrists  and  round  her  neck;  which  seemed  to 
be  the  same  set,  in  exactly  the  same  state,  as  when  I  had 
seen  her  last.  These  reminded  me,  in  reference  to  Miss  Murd- 
stone's  nature,  of  the  fetters  over  a  jail-door;  suggesting  on 
the  outside,  to  all  beholders,  what  was  to  be  expected  within. 

All  I  know  of  the  rest  of  the  evening  is,  that  I  heard  the 
empress  of  my  heart  sing  enchanted  ballads  in  the  French 
language,  generally  to  the  effect  that,  whatever  was  the  mat- 
ter, we  ought  always  to  dance,  Ta  ra  la,  Ta  ra  la!  accom- 
panying herself  on  a  glorified  instrument,  resembling  a 
guitar.  That  I  was  lost  in  blissful  delirium.  That  I  re- 
fused refreshment.  That  my  soul  recoiled  from  punch  par- 
ticularly. That  when  Miss  Murdstone  took  her  into  custody 
and  led  her  away,  she  smiled  and  gave  me  her  delicious 
hand.  That  I  caught  a  view  of  myself  in  a  mirror,  looking 
perfectly  imbecile  and  idiotic.  That  I  retired  to  bed  in  a 
most  maudlin  state  of  mind,  and  got  up  in  a  crisis  of  feeble 
infatuation. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  and  early,  and  I  thought  I  would 
go  and  take  a  stroll  down  one  of  those  wire-arched  walks, 
and  indulge  my  passion  by  dwelling  on  her  image.  On  my 
way  through  the  hall,  I  encountered  her  little  dog,  who  was 
called  Jip — short  for  Gipsy.  I  approached  him  tenderly, 
for  I  loved  even  him;  but  he  showed  his  whole  set  of  teeth, 
got  under  a  chair  expressly  to  snarl,  and  wouldn't  hear  of 
the  least  familiarity. 

The  garden  was  cool  and  solitary.  I  walked  about,  won- 
dering what  my  feelings  of  happiness  would  be,  if  I  could 
ever  become  engaged  to  this  dear  wonder.  As  to  marriage, 
and  fortune,  and  all  that,  I  believe  I  was  almost  as  inno- 
cently undesigning  then,  as  when  I  loved  little  Em'ly.  To  be 
allowed  to  called  her  *'  Dora,"  to  write  to  her,  to  dote  upon 
and  worship  her,  to  have  reason  to  think  that  when  she  was 
with  other  people  she  was  yet  mindful  of  me,  seemed  to  me 
the  summit  of  human  ambition — I  am  sure  it  was  the  sum- 
mit of  mine.  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  I  was  a  lack- 
adaisical young  spooney;  but  there  was  a  purity  of  heart  in 


390  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

all  this  still,  that  prevents  my  having  quite  a  contemptuous 
recollection  of  it,  let  me  laugh  as  I  may. 

I  had  not  been  walking  long,  when  I  turned  a  corner,  and 
met  her.  I  tingle  again  from  head  to  foot  as  my  recollec- 
tion turns  that  corner,  and  my  pen  shakes  in  my  hand. 

"  You — are — out  early,  Miss  Spenlow,"  said  I. 

"It's  so  stupid  at  home,"  she  replied,  *'and  Miss  Murd- 
stone  is  so  absurd  !  She  talks  such  nonsense  about  its  being 
necessary  for  the  day  to  be  aired,  before  I  come  out.  Aired!" 
(She  laughed  here  in  the  most  melodious  manner.)  "  On  a 
Sunday  morning,  when  I  don't  practice,  I  must  do  some- 
thing. So  I  told  papa  last  night  that  1  must  come  out.  Be- 
sides, it's  the  brightest  time  of  the  whole  day.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

I  hazarded  a  bold  flight,  and  said  (not  without  stammer- 
ing) that  it  was  very  bright  to  me  then,  though  it  had  been 
very  dark  to  me  a  minute  before. 

*'  Do  you  mean  a  compliment,"  said  Dora,  "  or  that  the 
weather  has  really  changed  ?" 

I  stammered  worse  than  before,  in  replying  that  I  meant 
no  compliment,  but  the  plain  truth;  though  I  was  not  aware 
of  any  change  having  taken  place  in  the  weather.  It  was  in 
the  state  of  my  own  feelings,  I  added,  bashfully — to  clench 
the  explanation. 

I  never  saw  such  curls — how  could  I,  for  there  never  were 
such  curls  ! — as  those  she  shook  out  to  hide  her  blushes. 
As  to  the  straw  hat  and  blue  ribbons  which  was  on  the  top  of 
the  curls,  if  I  could  only  have  hung  it  up  in  my  room  in  Buck- 
ingham Street,  what  a  priceless  possession  it  would  have  been! 

"  You  have  just  come  home  from  Paris?"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  she.     "  Have  you  ever  been  there  ?** 

"No." 

"Oh  !  I  hope  you'll  go  soon.  You  would  like  it  so  much!" 

Traces  of  deep-seated  anguish  appeared  in  my  counte- 
nance. That  she  should  hope  I  would  go,  that  she  should 
think  it  possible  I  could  go,  was  insupportable.  I  depreciated 
Paris;  I  depreciated  France.  I  said  I  wouldn't  leave  Eng- 
land, under  existing  circumstances,  for  any  earthly  consider- 
ation. Nothing  should  induce  me.  In  short,  she  was  shak- 
ing the  curls  again,  when  the  little  dog  came  running  along 
the  walk  to  our  relief. 

He  was  mortally  jealous  of  me,  and  persisted  in  barking  at 
me.     She  took  him  up  in  her  arms — oh,  my  goodness  ! — and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  391 

caressed  him,  but  he  insisted  upon  barking  still.  He  wouldn't 
let  me  touch  him,  when  I  tried;  and  then  she  beat  him.  It 
^  increased  my  sufferings  greatly  to  see  the  pats  she  gave  him 
'  for  punishment  on  the  bridge  of  his  blunt  nose,  while  he 
winked  his  eyes,  and  licked  her  hand,  and  still  growled 
within  himself  like  a  little  double-bass.  At  length  he  was 
quiet — well  he  might  be  with  her  dimpled  chin  upon  hi& 
head  ! — and  we  walked  away  to  look  at  a  greenhouse. 

"  You  are  not  very  intimate  with  Miss  Murdstone,  arc 
you  !"  said  Dora. — "  My  pet." 

(The  last  two  words  were  to  the  dog.  Oh,  if  they  had  only 
been  to  me  !) 

"  No,"  I  replied.     "  Not  at  all  so." 

"  She  is  a  tiresome  creature,"  said  Dora,  pouting.  *'  I  can't 
think  what  papa  can  have  been  about,  when  he  chose  such 
a  vexatious  thing  to  be  my  companion.  Who  wants  a  pro- 
tector !  I  am  sure  /  don't  want  a  protector.  Jip  can  protect 
me  a  great  deal  better  than  Miss  Murdstone — can't  you,  Jip 
dear  ?" 

He  only  winked  lazily,  when  she  kissed  his  ball  of  a  head. 
"  Papa  calls  her  my  confidential  friend,  but  I  am  sure  she 
is  no  such  thing — is  she,Jip  ?  We  are  not  going  to  confide 
in  any  such  cross  people,  Jip  and  I.  We  mean  to  bestow 
our  confidence  where  we  like  and  to  find  out  our  own 
friends,  instead  of  having  them  found  out  for  us — don't  we 
Jip?" 

Jip  made  a  comfortable  noise,  in  answer,  a  little  like  a  tea- 
kettle when  it  sings.  As  for  me,  every  word  was  a  new  heap 
of  fetters,  riveted  above  the  last. 

"  It  is  very  hard,  because  we  have  not  a  kind  mamma, 
that  we  are  to  have,  instead,  a  sulky,  gloomy  old  thing  like 
Miss  Murdstone,  always  following  us  about,  isn't  it,  Jip  ? 
Never  mind,  Jip.  We  won't  be  confidential,  and  we'll  make 
ourselves  as  happy  as  we  can  in  spite  of  her,  and  we'll  tease 
her,  and  not  please  her  — won't  we,  Jip  ?" 

If  it  had  lasted  any  longer,  I  think  I  must  have  gone  down 
on  my  knees  on  the  gravel,  with  the  probability  before  me 
of  grazing  them,  and  of  being  presently  ejected  from  the 
premises  besides.  But,  by  good  fortune,  the  greenhouse  was 
not  far  off,  and  these  words  brought  us  to  it. 

It  contained  quite  a  show  of  beautiful  geraniums.  We 
loitered  along  in  front  of  them,  and  Dora  often  stopped  to 
jidmire  this  one  or  that  one,  and  I  stopped  to  admire  the 


392  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

same  one,  and  Dora,  laughing,  held  the  dog  up,  childishly, 
to  smell  the  flowers;  and  if  we  were  not  all  three  in  Fairy- 
land, certainly  /  was.  The  scent  of  a  geranium  leaf,  at  this 
day,  strikes  me  with  a  half  comical,  half  serious  wonder  as* 
to  what  change  has  come  over  rne  in  a  moment;  and  then  I 
see  a  straw  hat  and  blue  ribbons,  and  a  quantity  of  curls, 
and  a  little  black  dog  being  held  up,  in  two  slender  arms, 
against  a  bank  of  blossoms  and  bright  leaves. 

Miss  Murdstone  had  been  looking  for  us.  She  found  us 
here;  and  presented  her  uncongenial  cheek,  the  little  wrink- 
les in  it  filled  with  hair  powder,  to  Dora  to  be  kissed.  Then 
she  took  Dora's  arm  in  hers,  and  marched  us  in  to  breakfast 
as  if  it  were  a  soldier's  funeral. 

How  many  cups  of  tea  I  drank,  because  Dora  made  it,  I 
don't  know.  But  I  perfectly  remember  that  I  sat  swilling  tea 
until  my  whole  nervous  system,  if  I  had  had  any  in  those  days, 
must  have  gone  by  the  board.  By-and-by  we  went  to 
church.  Miss  Murdstone  was  between  Dora  and  me  in  the 
pew;  but  I  heard  her  sing,  and  the  congregation  vanished.  A 
sermon  was  delivered — about  Dora,  of  course — and  I  am 
afraid  that  is  all  I  know  of  the  service. 

We  had  a  quiet  day.  No  company,  a  walk,  a  family  din- 
ner of  four,  and  an  evening  of  looking  over  books  and  pic- 
tures; Miss  Murdstone  with  a  homily  before  her,  and  her 
eye  upon  us,  keeping  guard  vigilantly.  Ah!  little  did  Mr. 
Spenlow  imagine,  when  he  sat  opposite  to  me  after  dinner 
that  day,  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  over  his  head,  how 
fervently  I  was  embracing  him,  in  my  fancy,  as  his  son- 
in-law!  Little  did  he  think,  when  I  took  leave  of  him  at 
night,  that  he  had  just  given  his  full  consent  to  my  being 
engaged  to  Dora,  and  that  I  was  invoking  blessings  on 
his  head! 

We  departed  early  in  the  morning,  for  we  had  a  Salv- 
age case  coming  on  in  the  Admiralty  Court,  requiring  a 
rather  accurate  knowledge  of  the  whole  science  of  navi- 
gation, in  which  (as  we  couldn't  be  expected  to  know 
much  about  these  matters  in  the  Commons)  the  judge  had 
entreated  two  old  Trinity  Masters,  for  charity's  sake,  to 
come  and  help  him  out.  Dora  was  at  the  breakfast- table 
to  make  the  tea  again,  however;  and  I  had  the  melan- 
choly pleasure  of  taking  off  my  hat  to  her  in  the  phaeton, 
as  she  stood  on  the  door-step  with  Jip  in  her  arms. 

What  the  Admiralty  was  to  me  that  day;  what  nonsense 
I  made  of  our  case  in  my  mind,  as  I  listened  to  it;  how 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  393 

I  saw  "  Dora  "  engraved  upon  the  blade  of  the  silver 
oar  which  they  lay  upon  the  table,  as  the  emblem  of  that 
high  jurisdiction;  and  how  I  felt,  when  Mr.  Spenlow  went 
home  without  me  (I  had  had  an  insane  hope  that  he  might 
take  me  back  again),  as  if  I  were  a  mariner  myself,  and 
the  ship  to  which  I  belonged  had  sailed  away  and  left  me^ 
on  a  desert  island;  I  shall  make  no  fruitless  effort  to  des-" 
cribe.  If  that  sleepy  old  court  could  rouse  itself,  and 
present  in  any  visible  form  the  day  dreams  I  have  had  in 
it  about  Dora,  it  would  reveal  my  truth. 

I  don't  mean  the  dreams  that  I  dreamed  on  that  day 
alone,  but  day  after  day,  from  week  to  week,  and  term 
to  term.  I  went  there,  not  to  attend  to  what  was  going 
on,  but  to  think  about  Dora.  If  I  ever  bestowed  a  thought 
upon  the  cases,  as  they  dragged  their  slow  length  before 
me,  it  was  only  to  wonder,  in  the  matrimonial  cases  (re- 
membering Dora),  how  it  was  that  married  people  could 
ever  be  otherwise  than  happy;  and  in  the  Prerogative 
cases,  to  consider,  if  the  money  in  question  had  been  left 
to  me,  what  were  the  foremost  steps  I  should  immediately 
have  taken  in  regard  to  Dora.  Within  the  first  week  of  my 
passion,  I  bought  four  sumptuous  waistcoats — not  for  my- 
self; /had  no  pride  in  them;  for  Dora — and  took  to  wear- 
ing straw-colored  kid  gloves  in  the  streets,  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  all  the  corns  I  ever  had.  If  the  boots  I  wore 
at  that  period  could  only  be  produced  and  compared  with 
the  natural  size  of  my  feet,  they  would  show  what  the  state 
of  my  heart  was,  in  a  most  affecting  manner. 

And  yet,  wretched  cripple  as  I  made  myself  by  this  act 
of  homage  to  Dora,  I  walked  miles  upon  miles  daily  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  her.  Not  only  was  I  soon  as  well  known  on 
the  Norwood  Road  as  the  postman  on  that  beat,  but  I  per- 
vaded London  likewise.  I  walked  about  the  streets  where 
the  best  shops  for  ladies  were,  I  haunted  the  Bazar  like  an 
unquiet  spirit,  I  fagged  through  the  park  again  and  again, 
long  after  I  was  quite  knocked  up.  Sometimes,  at  long  in- 
tervals and  on  rare  occasions,  I  saw  her.  Perhaps  I  saw 
her  glove  wave  in  a  carriage  window;  perhaps  I  met  her, 
walked  with  her  and  Miss  Murdstone  a  little  way,  and  spoke 
to  her.  In  the  latter  case  I  was  always  very  miserable  af- 
terwards, to  think  that  I  had  said  nothing  to  the  purpose; 
or  that  she  had  no  idea  of  the  extent  of  my  devotion,  or  that 
she  cared  nothing  about  me.     I  was  always  looking  out,  as 


394  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

may  be  supposed,  for  another  invitation  to  Mr.  Spenlow's 
house.     I  was  always  being  disappointed,  for  I  got  none. 

Mrs.  Crupp  must  have  been  a  woman  of  penetration;  for 
when  this  attachment  was  but  a  few  weeks  old,  and  I  had 
not  had  the  courage  to  write  more  explicitly  even  to  Agnes, 
than  that  I  had  been  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house  "  whose  fam- 
ily," I  added,  "  consists  of  one  daughter;" — I  say  Mrs.  Crupp 
must  have  been  a  woman  of  penetration,  for  even  in  that 
early  stage,  she  found  it  out.  She  came  up  to  me  one  evening, 
when  I  was  very  low,  to  ask  (she  being  then  afflicted  with  the 
disorder  I  have  mentioned),  if  I  could  oblige  her  with  a  little 
tincture  of  cardamums  mixed  with  rhubarb,  and  flavored 
with  seven  drops  of  the  essence  of  cloves,  which  was  the 
best  remedy  for  her  complaint; — or,  if  I  had  not  such  a 
thing  by  me,  with  a  little  brandy,  which  was  the  next  best. 
It  was  not,  she  remarked,  so  palatable  to  her,  but  it  was  the 
next  best.  As  I  had  never  even  heard  of  the  first  remedy, 
and  always  had  the  second  in  the  closet,  I  gave  Mrs.  Crupp 
a  glass  of  the  second,  which  (that  I  might  have  no  suspicion 
of  its  being  devoted  to  any  improper  use)  she  began  to  take 
in  my  presence, 

"Cheer  up,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  "I  can't  abear  to  see 
you  so,  sir,  I'm  a  mother  myself." 

I  did  not  quite  perceive  the  application  of  this  fact  to 
myselif  but  I  smiled  on  Mrs.  Crupp,  as  benignly  as  was  in 
my  power. 

"Come,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  "Excuse  me.  I  know 
what  it  is,  sir.     There's  a  young  lady  in  the  case." 

"  Mrs.  Crupp  ?"  I  returned,  reddening. 

"  Oh,  bless  you  !  Keep  a  good  heart,  sir  !"  said  Mrs. 
Crupp,  nodding  encouragement.  "  Never  say  die,  sir  !  If 
she  don't  smile  upon  you  there's  a  many  as  will.  You're  a 
young  gentleman  to  i?e  smiled  on,  Mr.  Copperfull,  and  you 
must  learn  your  walue,  sir." 

Mrs.  Crupp  always  called  me  Mr.  Copperfull:  firstly,  no 
doubt,  because  it  was  not  my  name;  and  secondly,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  in  some  indistinct  association  with  a  wash- 
ing-day. 

"  What  makes  you  suppose  there  is  any  young  lady  in  the 
case,  Mrs.  Crupp  ?"  said  I. 

"  Mr.  Copperfull,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  with  a  great  deal  of 
feeling,  "  I'm  a  mother  myself." 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Crupp  could  only  lay  her  hand  upon 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  395 

her  nankeen  bosom,  and  fortify  herself  against  returning 
pain  with  sips  of  her  medicine.     At  length  she  spoke  again. 

"  When  the  present  set  were  took  for  you  by  your  dear 
aunt,  Mr.  Copperfull,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  "my  remark  were, 
I  had  now  found  summun  I  could  care  for.  *  Thank  Ev'in!' 
were  the  expression,  *  I  have  now  found  summun  I  can  care 
for!' — You  don't  eat  enough,  sir,  nor  yet  drink." 

"  Is  that  what  you  found  your  supposition  on,  Mrs.  Crupp?" 
s^id  I. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  a  tone  approaching  to  severity, 
"  I've  laundressed  other  young  gentlemen  besides  yourself. 
A  young  gentleman  may  be  over-careful  of  himself,  or  he  may 
be  under-careful  of  himself.  He  may  brush  his  hair  too 
regular,  or  too  unregular.  He  may  wear  his  boots  much  too 
large  for  him,  or  much  too  small.  That  is  according  as 
the  gentleman  has  his  original  character  formed.  But  let 
him  go  to  which  extreme  he  may,  sir,  there's  a  young  lady 
in  both  of  'em." 

Mrs.  Crupp  shook  her  head  in  such  a  determined  manner, 
that  I  had  not  an  inch  of  'vantage  ground  left. 

"  It  was  but  the  gentleman  which  died  here  before  your- 
self," said  Mrs.  Crupp,  "  that  fell  in  love — with  a  barmaid 
— and  had  his  waistcoats  took  in  directly,  though  much 
swelled  by  drinking." 

"  Mrs.  Crupp,"  said  I,  "  I  must  beg  you  not  to  connect 
the  young  lady  in  my  case  with  a  barmaid,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  if  you  please." 

"  Mr.  Copperfull,"  returned  Mrs.  Crupp,  "  I'm  a  mother 
myself,  and  not  likely.  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  intrude. 
I  should  never  wish  to  intrude  where  I  were  not  welcome. 
But  you  are  a  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Copperfull,  and  my  ad- 
vice to  you  is,  to  cheer  up,  sir,  to  keep  a  good  heart,  and  to 
know  your  own  walue.  If  you  was  to  take  to  something, 
sir,"  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  "  if  you  was  to  take  to  skittles,  now, 
which  is  healthy,  you  might  find  it  divert  your  mind,  and  do 
you  good." 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Crupp,  affecting  to  be  very  care- 
ful of  the  brandy — which  was  all  gone — thanked  me  with  a 
majestic  courtesy,  and  retired.  As  her  figure  disappeared 
into  the  gloom  of  the  entry,  this  counsel  certainly  present- 
ed itself  to  my  mind  in  the  light  of  a  slight  liberty  on  Mrs. 
Crupp's  part;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  content  to  re- 
ceive it,  in  another  point  of  view,  as  a  word  to  the  wise,  and 
a  warning  in  future  to  keep  my  secret  better. 


396  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

TOMMY   TRADDLES. 

It  may  have  been  in  consequence  of  Mrs.  Crupp's  ad- 
vice, and,  perhaps,  for  no  better  reason  than  because  there 
was  a  certain  similarity  in  the  sound  of  the  words  skittles 
and  Traddles,  that  it  came  into  my  head,  next  day,  to  go 
and  look  after  Traddles.  The  time  he  had  mentioned  was 
more  than  out,  and  he  lived  in  a  Httle  street  near  the  Vet- 
erinary College  at  Camden  Town,  which  was  principally 
tenanted,  as  one  of  our  clerks  who  lived  in  that  direction 
informed  me,  by  gentlemen  students,  who  bought  live  don- 
keys, and  made  experiments  on  those  quadrupeds  in  their 
private  apartments.  Having  obtained  from  this  clerk  a 
direction  to  the  academic  grove  in  question,  I  set  out,  the 
same  afternoon,  to  visit  my  old  school-fellow. 

I  found  that  the  street  was  not  as  desirable  a  one  as  I 
could  have  wished  it  to  be,  for  the  sake  of  Traddles.  The 
inhabitants  appeared  to  have  a  propensity  to  throw  any 
little  trifles  they  were  not  in  want  of,  into  the  road; 
which  not  only  made  it  rank  and  sloppy,  but  untidy  too,  on 
account  of  the  cabbage-leaves.  The  refuse  was  not  wholly 
vegetable  either,  for  I  myself  saw  a  shoe,  a  doubled-up 
sauce-pan,  a  black  bonnet,  and  an  umbrella,  in  various 
stages  of  decomposition,  as  I  was  looking  out  for  the  num- 
ber I  wanted. 

The  general  air  of  the  place  reminded  me  forcibly  of  the 
days  when  I  lived  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  An  inde- 
scribable character  of  faded  gentility  that  attached  to  the 
house  I  sought,  and  made  it  unlike  all  the  other  houses  in 
the  street — though  they  were  all  built  on  one  monotonous 
pattern,  and  looked  like  the  early  copies  of  a  blundering 
boy  who  was  learning  to  make  houses,  and  had  not  yet  got 
out  of  his  cramped  brick  and  mortar  pothooks — reminded 
me  still  more  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  Happening  to 
arrive  at  the  door  as  it  was  opened  to  the  afternoon  milk- 
man, I  was  reminded  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  more 
forcibly  yet. 

**  Now,"  said  the  milkman  to  a  very  youthful  servant  girl. 
"  Has  that  there  little  bill  of  mine  been  heerd  on?" 

"Oh,  master  says  he'll  attend  to  it  immediate,"  was  the  reply. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  397 

"  Because,"  said  the  milkman,  going  on  as  if  he  had  re- 
ceived no  answer,  and  speaking,  as  I  judged  from  his  tone, 
rather  for  the  edification  of  somebody  within  the  house, 
than  of  the  youthful  servant— an  impression  which  was 
strengthened  by  his  manner  of  glaring  down  the  passage — 
"  Because  that  there  little  bill  has  been  running  so  long, 
that  I  begin  to  believe  it's  run  away  altogether,  and  never 
won't  be  heerd  of.  Now,  I'm  not  a  going  to  stand  it,  you 
know!"  said  the  milkman,  still  throwing  his  voice  into  the 
house,  and  glaring  down  the  passage. 

As  to  his  dealing  in  the  mild  article  of  milk,  by-the-by, 
there  never  was  a  greater  anomaly.  His  deportment  would 
have  been  fierce  in  a  butcher  or  a  brandy  merchant. 

The  voice  of  the  youthful  servant  became  faint,  but  she 
seemed  to  me,  from  the  action  of  her  lips,  again  to  murmur 
that  it  would  be  attended  to  immediate. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  the  milkman,  looking  hard  at  her 
for  the  first  time,  and  taking  her  by  the  chin,  "  are  you  fond 
of  milk?" 

"  Yes,  I  likes  it,"  she  replied. 

"  Good,"  said  the  milkman.  "  Then  you  won't  have  none 
to-morrow.  D'ye  hear.^  Not  a  fragment  of  milk  you  won't 
have  to-morrow." 

I  thought  she  seemed,  upon  the  whole,  relieved,  by  the 
prospect  of  having  any  to-day.  The  milkman,  after  shak- 
ing his  head  at  her,  darkly,  released  her  chin,  and  with  any- 
thing rather  than  good  will  opened  his  can,  and  deposited 
the  usual  quantity  in  the  family  jug.  This  done,  he  went 
away,  muttering,  and  uttered  the  cry  of  his  trade  next  door, 
in  a  vindictive  shriek. 

"  Does  Mr.  Traddles  live  here?"  I  then  enquired. 

A  mysterious  voice  from  the  end  of  the  passage  replied 
*' Yes."     Upon  which  the  youthful  servant  replied  "  Yes." 

"  Is  he  at  home?"  said  I. 

Again  the  mysterious  voice  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and 
again  the  servant  echoed  it.  Upon  this,  I  walked  in,  and 
in  pursuance  of  the  servant's  directions  walked  up-stairs; 
conscious,  as  I  passed  the  back  parlor-door,  that  I  was  sur- 
veyed by  a  mysterious  eye,  probably  belonging  to  the  mys- 
terious voice. 

When  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs — the  house  was  only  a 
story  high  above  the  ground  floor — Traddles  was  on  the 
landing  to  meet  me.    He  was  delighted  to  see  me^  and  gav^ 


398  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

me  welcome  with  great  heartiness,  to  his  little  room.  It  was 
in  the  front  of  the  house,  and  extremely  neat,  though  spare- 
ly furnished.  It  was  his  only  room,  I  saw;  for  there  was  a 
sofa-bedstead  in  it,  and  his  blacking-brushes  and  blacking 
were  among  his  books — on  the  top  shelf,  behind  a  diction- 
ary. His  table  was  covered  with  papers,  and  he  was  hard 
at  work  in  an  old  coat.  I  looked  at  nothing,  that  I  know 
of,  but  I  saw  everything,  even  to  the  prospect  of  a  church 
upon  his  china  ink-stand,  as  I  sat  down — and  this,  too,  was 
a  faculty  confirmed  in  me  in  the  old  Micawber  times.  Vari- 
ous ingenious  arrangements  he  had  made,  for  the  disguise  of 
his  chest  of  drawers,  and  the  accommodation  of  his  boots^ 
his  shaving-glass,  and  so  forth,  particularly  impressed  them- 
selves upon  me,  as  evidences  of  the  same  Traddles  who 
used  to  make  models  of  elephants'  dens  in  writing  paper  to 
put  flies  in;  and  to  comfort  himself,  under  ill  usage,  with 
the  memorable  works  of  art  I  have  so  often  mentioned. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  was  something  neatly  covered  up 
with  a  large  white  cloth.  I  could  not  make  out  what  that 
was. 

"  Traddles,"  said  I,  shaking  hands  with  him  again,  after  I 
had  sat  down.     "  I  am  delighted  to  see  you." 

"I  am  delighted  to  seej^?^,  Copperfield,"  he  returned.  **I 
am  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you.  It  was  because  I  was 
thoroughly  glad  to  see  you  when  we  met  in  Ely  Place,  and 
was  sure  you  were  thoroughly  glad  to  see  me,  that  I  gave 
you  this  address  instead  of  my  address  at  chambers." 

"  Oh  !     You  have  chambers  .>"  said  I. 

"  Why,  I  have  the  fourth  of  a  room  and  a  passage,  and 
the  fourth  of  a  clerk,"  returned  Traddles.  "  Three  others 
and  myself  unite  to  have  a  set  of  chambers — to  look  busi- 
ness-like— and  we  quarter  the  clerk  too.  Half-a-crown  a 
week  he  costs  me." 

His  old  simple  character  and  good  temper,  and  something 
of  his  old  unlucky  fortune  also,  I  thought,  smiled  at  me  in 
the  smile  with  which  he  made  this  explanation. 

*'  It's  not  because  I  have  the  least  pride,  Copperfield,  you 
understand,"  said  Traddles,  "  that  I  don't  usually  give  my 
address  here.  It's  only  on  account  of  those  who  come  to 
me,  who  might  not  like  to  come  here.  For  myself,  I  am 
fighting  my  way  on  in  the  world  against  difficulties,  and  it 
would  be  ridiculous  if  I  made  a  pretense  of  doing  any  thing 
else." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  399 

"  You  aj-e  reading  for  the  bar,  Mr.  Waterbrook  informed 
me  y*  said  I. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Traddles,  rubbing  his  hands  slowly  over 
one  another,  "  I  am  reading  for  the  bar.  The  fact  is,  I 
have  just  begun  to  keep  my  terms,  after  rather  a  long  delay. 
It's  some  time  since  I  was  articled,  but  the  payment  of  that 
hundred  pounds  was  a  great  pull.  A  great  pull !"  said 
Traddles,  with  a  wince,  as  if  he  had  had  a  tooth  out. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  can't  help  thinking  of,  Traddles, 
as  I  sit  here  looking  at  you  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"  No,"  said  he. 

"  That  sky-blue  suit  you  used  to  wear." 

"  Lord,  to  be  sure  !"  cried  Traddles,  laughing.  "  Tight 
in  the  arms  and  legs,  you  know  ?  Dear  me  !  Well !  Those 
were  happy  times,  weren't  they  ?" 

"  I  think  our  schoolmaster  might  have  made  them  hap- 
pier, without  doing  any  harm  to  any  of  us,  I  acknowledge," 
I  returned. 

"  Perhaps  he  might,"  said  Traddles.  "  But  dear  me,  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  fun  going  on.  Do  you  remember  the 
nights  in  the  bed-room  ?  When  we  used  to  have  the  sup- 
pers ?  And  when  you  used  to  tell  the  stories  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
And  do  you  remember  when  I  got  caned  for  crying  about 
Mr.  Mell  ?  Old  Creakle  !  I  should  like  to  see  him  again, 
too  !" 

"  He  was  a  brute  to  you,  Traddles,"  said  I,  indignantly; 
for  his  good  humor  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  seen  him  beaten 
but  yesterday. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  returned  Traddles.  "  Really  ?  Per- 
haps he  was,  rather.  But  it's  all  over,  a  long  while.  Old 
Creakle  ?" 

"  You  were  brought  up  by  an  uncle,  then  ?"  said  I. 

**  Of  course  I  was  !"  said  Traddles.  "  The  one  I  was 
always  going  to  write  fo.  And  always  didn't,  eh  !  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  Yes,  I  had  an  uncle  then.  He  died  soon  after  I  left 
school." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  retired — what  do  you  call  it ! — draper— 
cloth-merchant — and  had  made  me  his  heir.  But  he  didn't 
like  me  when  I  grew  up." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  !"  said  I.  He  was  so  com- 
posed, that  I  fancied  he  must  have  some  other  meaning. 

"  O  dear  yes,  Copperfield  !  I  mean  it,"  replied  Traddles. 


4.00  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  It  was  an  unfortunate  thing,  but  he  didn't  like  me  at  all. 
He  said  I  wasn't  at  all  what  he  expected,  and  so  he  married 
his  housekeeper." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  didn't  do  anything  in  particular,"  said  Traddles.  "  I 
lived  with  them,  waiting  to  be  put  out  in  the  world,  until  his 
gout  unfortunately  flew  to  his  stomach — and  so  he  died,  and 
so  she  married  a  young  man,  and  so  I  wasn't  provided  for." 

"  Did  you  get  nothing,  Traddles,  after  all? " 

*'  Oh  dear  yes  !"  said  Traddles.  *'  I  got  fifty  pounds.  I 
had  never  been  brought  up  to  any  profession,  and  at  first  I 
was  at  a  loss  what  to  do  for  myself.  However,  I  began, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  son  of  a  professional  man,  who 
had  been  to  Salem  House — Yawler,  with  his  nose  on  one 
side.     Do  you  recollect  him  ?" 

"  No.  He  had  not  been  there  with  me;  all  the  noses  were 
straight,  in  my  day." 

"It  don't  matter,"  said  Traddles.  "I  began,  by  means 
of  his  assistance,  to  copy  law  writings.  That  didn't  answer 
very  well;  and  then  I  began  to  state  cases  for  them,  and 
make  abstracts,  and  do  that  sort  of  work.  For  I  am  a  plod- 
ding kind  of  fellow,  Copperfield,  and  had  learnt  the  way  of 
doing  such  things  pithily.  Well !  that  put  it  in  my  head  to 
enter  myself  as  a  law  student;  and  that  ran  away  with  all 
that  was  left  of  the  fifty  pounds.  Yawler  recommended  me 
to  one  or  two  other  offices,  however — Mr.  Waterbrook's  for 
one — and  I  got  a  good  many  jobs.  I  was  fortunate  enough, 
too,  to  become  acquainted  with  a  person  in  the  publishing 
way,  who  was  getting  up  an  Encyclopaedia,  and  he  set  me 
to  work;  and,  indeed  "  (glancing  at  his  table),  "  I  am  at 
work  for  him  at  this  minute.  I  am  not  a  bad  compiler, 
Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  preserving  the  same  air  of 
cheerful  confidence  in  all  he  said,  "  but  I  have  no  invention 
at  all;  not  a  particle.  I  suppose  there  never  was  a  young 
man  with  less  originality  than  I  have." 

As  Traddles  seemed  to  expect  that  I  should  assent  to  this 
as  a  matter  of  course,  I  nodded;  and  he  went  on,  with  the 
same  sprightly  patience — I  can  find  no  better  expression — 
as  before. 

"  So,  by  little  and  little,  and  not  living  high,  I  managed  to 
scrape  up  the  hundred  pounds  at  last,"  said  Traddles; 
"  and  thank  Heaven  that's  paid— though  it  was— though  it 
certainly  was/*  said  Traddles,  wincing  again  as  if  he  had 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  4oi 

had  another  tooth  out,  "  a  pull.  I  am  living  by  the  sort  of 
work  I  have  mentioned,  still,  and  I  hope,  one  of  these  days, 
to  get  connected  with  some  newspaper:  which  would  almost 
be  the  making  of  my  fortune.  Now,  Copperfield,  you  are 
so  exactly  what  you  used  to  be,  with  that  agreeable  face, 
and  it's  so  pleasant  to  see  you,  that  I  shan't  conceal  any- 
thing.    Therefore  you  must  know  that  I  am  engaged." 

Engaged  !  Oh,  Dora  ! 

"  She  is  a  curate's  daughter,"  said  Traddles;  *'  one  of  ten, 
down  in  Devonshire.  Yes  !"  For  he  saw  me  glance,  in- 
voluntarily, at  the  prospect  on  the  inkstand.  "  That's  the 
church  !  You  come  round  here,  to  the  left,  out  of  this  gate," 
tracing  his  finger  along  the  inkstand,  "  and  exactly  where  I 
hold  this  pen,  there  stands  the  house — facing,  you  under- 
stand, towards  the  church." 

The  delight  with  which  he  entered  into  these  particulars 
did  not  fully  present  itself  to  me  until  afterwards;  for  my 
selfish  thoughts  were  making  a  ground-plan  of  Mr.  Spenlow's 
house  and  garden  at  the  same  moment. 

"  She  is  such  a  dear  girl !"  said  Traddles;  "  a  little  older 
than  me,  but  the  dearest  girl  !  I  told  you  I  was  going  out 
of  town  !  I  have  been  down  there.  I  walked  there,  and  I 
walked  back,  and  I  had  the  most  delightful  time  !  I  dare 
say  ours  is  likely  to  be  a  rather  long  engagement,  but  our 
motto  is  *  Wait  and  hope  !'  We  always  say  that.  *  Wait 
and  hope,*  we  always  say.  And  she  would  wait.  Copper- 
field,  till  she  was  sixty — any  age  you  can  mention — for  me!" 

Traddles  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  with  a  triumphant  smile, 
put  his  hand  upon  the  white  cloth  I  had  observed. 

"  However,"  he  said,  "  it's  not  that  we  haven't  made  a 
beginning  towards  housekeeping.  No,  no;  we  have  begun. 
We  must  get  on  by  degrees,  but  we  have  begun.  Here," 
drawing  the  cloth  off  with  great  pride  and  care,  "  are  two 
pieces  of  furniture  to  commence  with.  This  flower-pot  and 
stand,  she  bought  herself.  You  put  that  in  a  parlor- window," 
said  Traddles,  falling  a  little  back  from  it  to  survey  it  with 
the  greater  admiration,  "  with  a  plant  in  it,  and — there  you 
are  !  This  little  round  table  with  the  marble  top  (it's  two 
feet  ten  in  circumference),  /  bought.  You  want  to  lay  a 
book  down,  you  know,  or  somebody  comes  to  see  you  or 
your  wife,  and  wants  a  place  to  stand  a  cup  of  tea  upon, 
and — and  there  you  arc  again  !"  said  Traddles.  *'  It's  aa 
admirable  piece  of  workmanship— 'firm  ^§  a  fogk  I** 


402  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  praised  them  both,  highly,  and  Traddles  replaced  the 
covering  as  carefully  as  he  had  removed  it. 

"  It's  not  a  great  deal  towards  the  furnishing,"  said  Trad- 
dles, "  but  it's  something.  The  table-cloths  and  pillow-cases, 
and  articles  of  that  kind,  are  what  discourage  me  most, 
Copperfield.  So  does  the  ironmongery — candle-boxes  and 
gridirons,  and  that  sort  of  necessaries — because  those  things 
tell,  and  mount  up.  However,  '  wait  and  hope!'  And  I 
assure  you  she's  the  dearest  girl  !" 

"  I  am  quite  certain  of  it,"  said  I. 

*'  In  the  mean  time,"  said  Traddles,  coming  back  to  his 
chair;  "and  this  is  the  end  of  my  prosing  about  myself,  I 
get  on  as  well  as  I  can.  I  don't  make  much,  but  I  don't 
spend  much.  In  general,  I  board  with  the  people  down- 
stairs, who  are  very  agreeable  people  indeed.  Both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Micawber  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life,  and  are  excel- 
lent company." 

"  My  dear  Traddles  !"  I  quickly  exclaimed.  "  What  are 
you  talking  about  ?" 

Traddles  looked  at  me,  as  if  he  wondered  what  /  was 
talking  about. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber!"  I  repeated.  **  Why,  I  am  in- 
timately acquainted  with  them!" 

An  opportune  double  knock  at  the  door,  which  I  knew 
well  from  old  experience  in  Windsor  Terrace,  and  which 
nobody  but  Mr.  Micawber  could  ever  have  knocked  at  that 
door,  resolved  any  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  their  being  my 
old  friends.  I  begged  Traddles  to  ask  his  landlord  to  walk 
up.  Traddles  accordingly  did  so,  over  the  banister;  and 
Mr.  Micawber,  not  a  bit  changed — his  tights,  his  stick,  his 
shirt-collar,  and  his  eye-glass,  all  the  same  as  ever — came 
into  the  room  with  a  genteel  and  youthful  air. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Traddles,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
with  the  old  roll  in  his  voice,  as  he  checked  himself  in 
humming  a  soft  tune.  "  I  was  not  aware  that  there 
was  any  individual,  alien  to  this  tenement,  in  your  sanc- 
tum." 

Mr.  Micawber  slightly  bowed  to  me,  and  pulled  up  his 
shirt-collar. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Micawber?"  said  I. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  you  are  exceedingly  oblig- 
ing.    I  am  /«  s^a^u  quo.'' 

"  A»4  Mrs*  Micawber  ?"  I  pursued. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  403 

"  Sir,*'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  she  is  also,  thank  God,  in 
statu  quo.'' 

"  And  the  children,  Mr.  Micawber  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  I  rejoice  to  reply  that  they 
are,  likewise,  in  the  enjoyment  of  salubrity." 

AH  this  time,  Mr.  Micawber  had  not  known  me  in  the 
least,  though  he  had  stood  face  to  face  with  me.  But  now, 
seeing  me  smile,  he  examined  my  features  with  more  atten- 
tion, fell  back,  cried,  "  Is  it  possible?  Have  I  the  pleasure 
of  again  beholding  Copperfield  ?"  and  shook  me  by  both 
hands  with  the  utmost  fervor. 

"Good  Heaven,  Mr.  Traddles!"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "to 
think  that  I  should  find  you  acquainted  with  the  friend  of 
my  youth,  the  companion  of  earlier  days!  My  dear!"  call- 
ing over  the  banisters  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  while  Traddles 
looked  (with  reason)  not  a  little  amazed  at  this  description 
of  me.  "  Here  is  a  gentleman  in  Mr.  Traddles's  apartment, 
whom  he  wishes  to  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  you, 
my  love!" 

Mr.  Micawber  immediately  reappeared,  and  shook  hands 
with  me  again. 

"  And  how  is  our  good  friend  the  Doctor,  Copperfield  ?" 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  and  all  the  circle  at  Canterbury?" 

"  I  have  none  but  good  accounts  of  them,"  said  I. 

"  I  am  most  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Micawber. 
"  It  was  at  Canterbury  where  we  last  met.  Within  the 
shadow,  I  may  figuratively  say,  of  that  religious  edifice,  im- 
mortalized by  Chaucer,  which  was  anciently  the  resort  of 
Pilgrims  from  the  remotest  corners  of— in  short,"  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  "  in  the  immediate  neighbor-hood  of  the 
Cathedral." 

I  replied  that  it  was.  Mr.  Micawber  continued  talking 
as  volubly  as  he  could;  but  not,  I  thought,  without  show- 
ing,  by  some  marks  of  concern  in  his  countenance,  that 
he  was  sensible  of  sounds  in  the  next  room,  as  of  Mrs. 
Micawber  washing  her  hands,  and  hurriedly  opening  and 
shutting  drawers  that  were  uneasy  in  their  action. 

"  You  find  us,  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  one 
eye  on  Traddles,  "  at  present  established,  on  what  may  be 
designated  as  a  small  and  unassuming  scale;  but  you  are 
aware  that  I  have,  in  the  course  of  my  career,  surmounted 
difficulties,  and  conquered  obstacles.  You  are  no  stranger 
to  the  fact,  that  there  have  been  periods  of  my  life,  when  it 


404  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

has  been  requisite  that  I  should  pause,  until  certain  expect- 
ed events  should  turn  up;  when  it  has  been  necessary  that 
I  should  fall  back,  before  making  what  I  trust  I  shall  not  be 
accused  of  presumption  in  terming — a  spring.  The  present 
is  one  of  those  momentous  stages  in  the  life  of  man.  You 
find  me,  fallen  back,  for  a  spring;  and  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe  that  a  vigorous  leap  will  shortly  be  the  result." 

I  was  expressing  my  satisfaction,  when  Mrs.  Micawber 
came  in;  a  little  more  slatternly  than  she  used  to  be,  or  so 
she  seemed  now,  to  my  unaccustomed  eyeS;  but  still  with 
some  preparation  of  herself  for  company,  and  with  a  pair  of 
brown  gloves  on. 

"  My  dear,**  said  Mr.  Micawber,  leading  her  towards  me. 
"  Here  is  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Copperfield,  who  wishes 
to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  you." 

It  would  have  been  better,  as  it  turned  out,  to  have  led 
gently  up  to  his  announcement,  for  Mrs.  Micawber,  being 
in  a  delicate  state  of  health,  was  overcome  by  it,  and  was 
taken  so  unwell,  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  obliged,  in  great 
trepidation,  to  run  down  to  the  water-butt  in  the  back  yard, 
and  draw  a  basinful  to  lave  her  brow  with.  She  presently 
revived,  however,  and  was  really  pleased  to  see  me.  We 
had  half-an-hour's  talk,  all  together;  and  I  asked  her  about 
the  twins,  who,  she  said,  were  "  grown  great  creatures;"  and 
after  Master  and  Miss  Micawber,  whom  she  described  as 
"  absolute  giants,"  but  they  were  not  produced  on  that  occa- 
sion. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  very  anxious  that  I  should  stay  to  din- 
ner. I  should  not  have  been  averse  to  do  so,  but  that  I 
imagined  I  detected  trouble,  and  calculation  relative  to  the 
extent  of  the  cold  meat,  in  Mrs.  Micawber's  eye.  I  there- 
fore pleaded  another  engagement;  and  observing  that  Mrs. 
Micawber's  spirits  were  immediately  lightened,  I  resisted  all 
persuasion  to  forego  it. 

But  I  told  Traddles,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  that 
before  I  could  think  of  leaving,  they  must  appoint  a  day 
when  they  would  come  and  dine  with  me.  The  occupa- 
tions to  which  Traddles  stood  pledged,  rendered  it  neces- 
sary to  fix  a  somewhat  distant  one;  but  an  appointment  was 
made  for  the  purpose,  that  suited  us  all,  and  then  I  took  my 
leave. 

Mr.  Micawber,  under  pretence  of  showing  me  a  nearer 
way  than  that  by  which  I  had  come,  accompanied  me  to  the 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  405 

comer  of  the  street;  being  anxious  (he  explained  to  me)  to 
say  a  few  words  to  an  old  friend,  in  confidence. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  I  need 
hardly  tell  you  that  to  have  beneath  our  roof,  under  exist- 
ing circumstances,  a  mind  like  that  which  gleams — if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  expression — which  gleams — in  your  friend 
Traddles,  is  an  unspeakable  comfort.  With  a  washerwoman, 
who  exposes  hard-bake  for  sale  in  her  parlor-window,  dwell- 
ing next  door,  and  a  Bow-street  officer  residing  over  the 
way,  you  may  imagine  that  his  society  is  a  source  of  con- 
solation to  myself  and  to  Mrs.  Micawber.  I  am  at  present, 
my  dear  Copperfield,  engaged  in  the  sale  of  corn  upon  com- 
mission. It  is  not  an  avocation  of  a  remunerative  descrip- 
tion— in  other  words  it  does  «<?/  pay — and  some  temporary 
embarrassments  of  a  pecuniary  nature  have  been  the  con- 
sequence. I  am,  however,  delighted  to  add  that  I  have 
now  an  immediate  prospect  of  something  turning  up  (I  am 
not  at  liberty  to  say  in  what  direction),  which  I  trust  will 
enable  me  to  provide,  permanently,  both  for  myself  and  for 
your  friend  Traddles,  in  whom  I  have  an  unaffected  inter- 
est. You  may,  perhaps,  be  prepared  to  hear  that  Mrs. 
Micawber  is  in  a  state  of  health  which  renders  it  not  wholly 
improbable  that  an  addition  may  be  ultimately  made  to 
those  pledges  of  affection  which — in  short,  to  the  infantine 
group.  Mrs.  Micawber's  family  have  been  so  good  as  to  ex- 
press their  dissatisfaction  with  this  state  of  things.  I  have 
merely  to  observe,  that  I  am  not  aware  it  is  any  business  of 
theirs,  and  that  I  repel  that  exhibition  of  feeling  with  scorn, 
and  with  defiance!" 

Mr.  Micawber  then  shook  hands  with  me  again,  and  left  me. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MR.   micawber's  gauntlet. 

Until  the  day  arrived  on  which  I  was  to  entertain  my 
newly-found  old  friends,  I  lived  principally  on  Dora  and 
coffee.  In  my  love-lorn  condition,  my  appetite  languished; 
and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I  felt  as  though  it  would  have  been 
an  act  of  perfidy  towards  Dora  to  have  a  natural  relish  for 
my  dinner.  The  quantity  of  walking  exercise  I  took,  was 
not  in  this  respect  attended  with  its  usual  consequence,  as 
the  disappointment  counteracted  the  fresh  air.     I  have  my 


4o6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

doubts,  too,  founded  on  the  acute  experience  acquired  at 
this  period  of  my  Hfe,  whether  a  sound  enjoyment  of  animal 
food  can  develop  itself  freely  in  any  human  subject  who  is 
always  in  torment  from  tight  boots.  I  think  the  extremities 
require  to  be  at  peace  before  the  stomach  will  conduct  itself 
with  vigor. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  domestic  little  party,  I  did  not  re- 
peat my  former  extensive  preparations.  I  merely  provided 
a  pair  of  soles,  a  small  leg  of  mutton,  and  a  pigeon-pie. 
Mrs.  Crupp  broke  out  into  rebellion  on  my  first  bashful  hint 
in  reference  to  the  cooking  of  the  fish  and  joint,  and  said, 
with  a  dignified  sense  of  injury,  "  No!  no,  sir!  You  will  not 
ask  me  sich  a  thing,  for  you  are  better  acquainted  with  me 
than  to  suppose  me  capable  of  doing  what  I  cannot  do  with 
ampial  satisfaction  to  my  own  feelings!"  But,  in  the  end,  a 
compromise  was  effected  ;  and  Mrs.  Crupp  consented  to 
achieve  this  feat,  on  condition  that  I  dined  from  home  for 
a  fortnight  afterwards. 

And  here  I  may  remark,  that  what  I  underwent  from  Mrs. 
Crupp,  in  consequence  of  the  tyranny  she  established  over 
me,  was  dreadful.  I  never  was  so  much  afraid  of  any  one. 
We  made  a  compromise  of  everything.  If  I  hesitated,  she 
was  taken  with  that  wonderful  disorder  which  was  always 
lying  in  ambush  in  her  system,  ready,  at  the  shortest  notice, 
to  prey  upon  her  vitals.  If  I  rang  the  bell  impatiently,  after 
half-a-dozen  unavailing  modest  pulls,  and  she  appeared  at 
last — which  was  not  by  any  means  to  be  relied  upon — she 
would  appear  with  a  reproachful  aspect,  sink  breathless  on 
a  chair  near  the  door,  lay  her  hand  upon  her  nankeen  bosom, 
and  become  so  ill,  that  I  was  glad,  at  any  sacrifice  of  brandy 
or  anything  else,  to  get  rid  of  her.  If  I  objected  to  having 
my  bed  made  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — which  I  do 
still  think  an  uncomfortable  arrangement — one  motion  of 
her  hand  towards  the  same  nankeen  region  of  wounded  sen- 
sibility was  enough  to  make  me  falter  an  apology.  In  short, 
I  would  have  done  anything  in  an  honorable  way  rather  than 
give  Mrs.  Crupp  offense;  and  she  was  the  terror  of  my  life. 

I  bought  a  second-hand  dumb-waiter  for  this  dinner  party, 
in  preference  to  re-engaging  the  handy  young  man;  against 
whom  I  had  conceived  a  prejudice,  in  consequence  of  meet- 
ing him  in  the  Strand,  one  Sunday  morning,  in  a  waistcoat 
remarkably  like  one  of  mine,  which  had  been  missing  since 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  407 

the  former  occasion.  The  *•" young  gal**  was  re-engaged; 
but  on  the  stipulation  that  she  should  only  bring  in  the  dishes, 
and  then  withdraw  to  the  landing-place,  beyond  the  outer 
door;  where  a  habit  of  sniffing  she  had  contracted  would  be 
lost  upon  the  guests,  and  where  her  retiring  on  the  plates 
would  be  a  physical  impossibility. 

Having  laid  in  the  materials  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  to  be 
compounded  by  Mr.  Micawber;  having  provided  a  bottle  of 
lavender-water,  two  wax  candles,  a  paper  of  mixed  pins,  and 
a  pincushion,  to  assist  Mrs.  Micawber  in  her  toilette,  at  my 
dressing-table;  having  also  caused  the  fire  in  my  bed-room 
to  be  lighted  for  Mrs.  Micawber's  convenience;  and  having 
laid  the  cloth  with  my  own  hands,  I  awaited  the  result  with 
composure. 

At  the  appointed  time,  my  three  visitors  arrived  together. 
Mr.  Micawber  with  more  shirt-collar  than  usual,  and  a 
new  ribbon  to  his  eye-glass;  Mrs.  Micawber  with  her  cap  in 
a  whity-brown  paper  parcel;  Traddles  carrying  the  parcel, 
and  supporting  Mrs.  Micawber  on  his  arm.  They  were  all 
delighted  with  my  residence.  When  I  conducted  Mrs. 
Micawber  to  my  dressing-table,  and  she  saw  the  scale  on 
which  it  was  prepared  for  her,  she  was  in  such  raptures, 
that  she  called  Mr.  Micawber  to  come  in  and  look. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  this  is 
luxurious.  This  is  a  way  of  life  which  reminds  me  of  the 
period  when  I  was  myself  in  a  state  of  celibacy,  and  Mrs. 
Micawber  had  not  yet  been  solicited  to  plight  her  ifaith  at  the 
hymeneal  altar." 

"  He  means  solicited  by  him,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs. 
Micawber  archly.     "  He  cannot  answer  for  others." 

"  My  dear,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber  with  sudden  serious- 
ness. "  I  have  no  desire  to  answer  for  others.  I  am  too 
well  aware  that  when,  in  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  Fate, 
you  were  reserved  for  me,  it  is  possible  you  may  have  been 
reserved  for  one,  destined,  after  a  protracted  struggle,  at 
length  to  fall  a  victim  to  pecuniary  involvements  of  a  com- 
plicated nature.  I  understand  your  allusion,  love.  I  regret 
it,  but  I  can  bear  it.". 

"  Micawber  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Micawber,  in  tears.  "  Have 
I  deserved  this  !  I,  who  never  have  deserted  you;  who 
never  will  desert  you,  Micawber!" 

"  My  love,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  much  affected,  "  you  will 
forgive,  and  our  old  and  tried  friend  Copperfield  will,  I  am 
sure,  forgive,  the  momentary  laceration  of  a  wounded  spirit. 


4o8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

made  sensitive  by  a  recent  collision  with  the  Minion  of 
Power — in  other  words,  with  a  ribald  Turncock  attached  to 
the  water-works — and  will  pity,  not  condemn,  its  excesses." 

Mr.  Micawber  then  embraced  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  pressed 
my  hand;  leaving  me  to  infer  from  this  broken  allusion  that 
his  domestic  supply  of  water  had  been  cut  off  that  after- 
noon in  consequence  of  default  in  the  payment  of  the  com- 
pany's rates. 

To  divert  his  thoughts  from  this  melancholy  subject,  I 
informed  Mr.  Micawber  that  I  relied  upon  him  for  a  bowl 
of  punch,  and  led  him  to  the  lemons.  His  recent  despond- 
ency, not  to  say  despair,  was  gone  in  a  moment.  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  thoroughly  enjoy  himself  amid  the  fragrance 
of  lemon-peel  and  sugar,  the  odor  of  burning  rum,  and  the 
steam  of  boiling  water,  as  Mr,  Micawber  did  that  afternoon. 
It  was  wonderful  to  see  his  face  shining  at  us  out  of  a  thin 
cloud  of  these  delicate  fumes,  as  he  stirred,  and  mixed,  and 
tasted,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  making,  instead  of  punch, 
a  fortune  for  his  family  down  to  the  latest  posterity.  As  to 
Mrs.  Micawber,  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  effect  of 
the  cap,  or  the  lavender-water,  or  the  pins,  or  the  fire,  or 
the  wax  candles,  but  she  came  out  of  my  room,  compara- 
tively speaking,  lovely.  And  the  lark  was  never  gayer  than 
that  excellent  woman. 

I  suppose — I  never  ventured  to  inquire,  but  I  suppose — 
that  Mrs.  Crupp,  after  frying  the  soles,  was  taken  ill.  Be- 
cause we  broke  down  at  that  point.  The  leg  of  mutton 
came  up  very  red  within,  and  very  pale  without:  besides 
having  a  foreign  substance  of  a  gritty  nature  sprinkled  over 
it,  as  if  it  had  had  a  fall  into  the  ashes  of  that  remarkable 
kitchen  fire-place.  But  we  were  not  in  a  condition  to  judge 
of  this  fact  from  the  appearance  of  the  gravy,  forasmuch  as 
the  "  young  gal "  had  dropped  it  all  upon  the  stairs — where 
it  remained,  by-the-by,  in  a  long  train,  until  it  was  worn  out. 
The  pigeon-pie  was  not  bad,  but  it  was  a  delusive  pie:  the 
crust  being  like  a  disappointing  head,  phrenologically  speak- 
ing: full  of  lumps  and  bumps,  with  nothing  particular  un- 
derneath. In  short,  the  banquet  was  such  a  failure  that  I 
should  have  been  quite  unhappy — about  the  failure,  I  mean, 
for  I  was  always  unhappy  about  Dora — if  I  had  not  been  re- 
lieved by  the  great  good-humor  of  my  company,  and  by  a 
bright  suggestion  from  Mr.  Micawber. 

*' My  dear  friend  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "ac- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  409 

cidents  will  occur  in  the  best  regulated  families;  and  in 
families  not  regulated  by  that  pervading  influence  which 
sanctifies  while  it  enhances  the — a — I  would  say,  in  short, 
by  the  influence  of  woman,  in  the  lofty  character  of  wife, 
they  may  be  expected  with  confidence,  and  must  be  borne 
with  philosophy.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of 
remarking  that  there  are  few  comestibles  better,  in  their 
way,  than  a  Devil,  and  that  I  believe,  with  a  little  division 
of  labor,  we  could  accomplish  a  good  one  if  the  young  per- 
son in  attendance  could  produce  a  gridiron,  I  would  put  it 
to  you,  that  this  little  misfortune  may  be  easily  repaired." 

There  was  a  gridiron  in  the  pantry,  on  which  my  morn- 
ing rasher  of  bacon  was  cooked.  We  had  it  in,  in  a  twink- 
ling, and  immediately  applied  ourselves  to  carrying  Mr. 
Micawber's  idea  into  effect.  The  division  of  labor  to  which 
he  had  referred  was  this; — T raddles  cut  the  mutton  into 
slices;  Mr.  Micawber  (who  could  do  anything  of  this  sort  to 
perfection)  covered  them  with  pepper,  mustard,  salt,  and 
cayenne;  I  put  them  on  the  gridiron,  turned  them  with  a 
fork,  and  took  them  off,  under  Mr.  Micawber's  directions, 
and  Mrs.  Micawber  heated,  and  continually  stirred,  some 
mushroom  ketchup  in  a  little  saucepan.  When  we  had 
slices  enough  done  to  begin  upon,  we  fell-to,  with  our 
sleeves  still  tucked  up  at  the  wrists,  more  slices  sputtering 
and  blazing  on  the  fire,  and  our  attention  divided  between 
the  mutton  on  our  plates,  and  the  muttoa  then  preparing. 

What  with  the  novelty  of  this  cookery,  the  excellence  of 
it,  the  bustle  of  it,  the  frequent  starting  up  to  loo'k  after  it, 
the  frequent  sitting  down  to  dispose  of  it  as  the  crisp  slices 
came  off  the  gridiron  hot  and  hot,  the  being  so  busy,  so 
flushed  with  the  fire,  so  amused,  and  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
tempting  noise  and  savor,  we  reduced  the  leg  of  mutton  to 
the  bone.  My  own  appetite  came  back  miraculously.  I  am 
ashamed  to  record  it,  but  I  really  believe  I  forgot  Dora  for 
a  little  while.  I  am  satisfied  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber 
could  not  have  enjoyed  the  feast  more  if  they  had  sold  a 
bed  to  provide  it.  Traddles  laughed  as  heartily,  almost 
the  whole  time,  as  he  ate  and  worked.  Indeed  we  all  did, 
all  at  once;  and  I  dare  say  there  never  was  a  greater 
success. 

We  were  at  the  height  of  our  enjoyment,  and  were  all 
busily  engaged,  in  our  several  departments,  endeavoring  to 
bring  the  last  batch  of  slices  to  a  state  of  perfection  that 
should  crown  the  feast,  when  I  was  aware  of  a  strange  pres- 


4IO  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ence  in  the  room,  and  my  eyes  encountered  those  of  the 
staid  Littimer,  standing  hat  in  hand  before  me. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  invoUintarily  askea. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  directed  to  come  in.  Is 
my  master  not  here,  sir  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  not  seen  him,  sir  ?** 

"  No;  don't  you  come  from  him  ?'* 

'*  Not  immediately  so,  sir." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  you  would  find  him  here  ?" 

"  Not  exactly  so,  sir.  But  I  should  think  he  might  be 
here  to-morrow,  as  he  has  not  been  here  to-day." 

"  Is  he  coming  up  from  Oxford  ?" 

"  I  beg,  sir,"  he  returned  respectfully,  "  that  you  will  be 
seated,  and  allow  me  to  do  this."  With  which  he  took  the 
fork  from  my  unresisting  hand,  and  bent  over  the  gridiron, 
as  if  his  whole  attention  were  concentrated  on  it. 

We  should  not  have  been  much  discomposed,  I  dare  say,  by 
the  appearance  of  Steerforth  himself,  but  we  became  in  a 
moment  the  meekest  of  the  meek  before  his  respectable 
serving-man.  Mr.  Micawber,  humming  a  tune,  to  show  that 
he  was  quite  at  ease,  subsided  into  his  chair,  with  the  handle 
of  a  hastily-concealed  fork  sticking  out  of  the  bosom  of  his 
coat,  as  if  he  had  stabbed  himself.  Mrs.  Micawber  put  on 
her  brown  gloves,  and  assumed  a  genteel  languor.  Traddles 
ran  his  greasy  hands  through  his  hair,  and  stood  it  bolt  up- 
right, and  stared  in  confusion  at  the  table-cloth.  As  for 
me  I  was  a  mere  infant  at  the  head  of  my  own  table;  and 
hardly  ventured  to  glance  at  the  respectable  phenomenon, 
who  had  come  from  Heaven  knows  where,  to  put  my  estab- 
lishment to  rights. 

Meanwhile  he  took  the  mutton  off  the  gridiron,  and 
gravely  handed  it  round.  We  all  took  some,  but  our  ap- 
preciation of  it  was  gone,  and  we  merely  made  a  show  of 
eating  it.  As  we  severally  pushed  away  our  plates,  he  noise- 
lessly removed  them,  and  set  on  the  cheese.  He  took  that 
off,  too,  when  it  was  done  with;  cleared  the  table;  piled 
everything  on  the  dumb-waiter;  gave  us  our  wine-glasses; 
and  of  his  own  accord  wheeled  the  dumb-waiter  into  the 
pantry.  All  this  was  done  in  a  perfect  manner,  and  he 
never  raised  his  eyes  from  what  he  was  about.  Yet  his  very 
elbows,  when  he  had  his  back  towards  me,  seemed  to  teem 
with  the  expression  of  his  fixed  opinion  that  I  was  extremely 
young. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  411 

"  Can  I  do  anything  more,  sir  ?" 

I  thanked  him  and  said,  no;  but  would  he  take  no  dinner 
himself  ? 

"  None,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir." 

"  Is  Mr.  Steerforth  coming  from  Oxford  ?'* 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?" 

"  Is  Mr.  Steerforth  coming  from  Oxford  ?" 

"  I  should  imagine  that  he  might  be  here  to-morrow,  sir. 
I  rather  thought  he  might  have  been  here  to-day,  sir.  The 
mistake  is  mine,  no  doubt,  sir." 

"  If  you  should  see  him  first — "  said  I. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  I  don't  think  I  shall  see  him 
first." 

"In  case  you  do,"  said  I,  "pray  say  that  I  am  sorry  he 
was  not  here  to-day,  as  an  old  school-fellow  of  his  was 
here." 

"  Indeed,  sir !"  and  he  divided  a  bow  between  me  and 
Traddles,  with  a  glance  at  the  latter. 

He  was  moving  softly  to  the  door,  when,  in  a  forlorn  hope 
of  saying  something  naturally — which  I  never  could,  to  this 
man — I  said  : 

"Oh!  Littimer!" 

"Sir!" 

"  Did  you  remain  long  at  Yarmouth,  that  time  ?" 

"  Not  particularly  so,  sir." 

"  You  saw  the  boat  completed  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  remained  behind  on  purpose  to  see  the  boat 
completed." 

"  I  know  !"  He  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  respectfully.  "  Mr- 
Steerforth  has  not  seen  it  yet,  I  suppose!" 

"  I  really  can't  say,  sir.  I  think — but  I  really  can't  say, 
sir.     I  wish  you  good  night,  sir." 

He  comprehended  everybody  present,  in  the  respectful 
bow  with  which  he  followed  these  words,  and  disappeared. 
My  visitors  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  when  he  was  gone; 
but  my  own  relief  was  very  great,  for  besides  the  constraint, 
arising  from  that  extraordinary  sense  of  being  at  a  disad- 
vantage which  I  always  had  in  this  man's  presence,  my  con- 
science had  embarrassed  me  with  whispers  that  I  had  mis- 
vfusted  his  master,  and  I  could  not  repress  a  vague,  uneasy 
dread  that  he  might  find  it  out.  How  was  it,  having  so  little 
in  reality  to  conceal,  that  I  always  did  feel  as  if  this  man 
were  finding  me  out! 


412  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Micawber  roused  me  from  this  reflection,  which  was 
blended  with  a  certain  remorseful  apprehension  of  seeing 
Steerforth  himself,  by  bestowing  many  encomiums  on  the 
absent  Littimer  as  a  most  respectful  fellow,  and  a  thoroughly 
admirable  servant.  Mr.  Micawber,  I  may  remark,  had  taken 
his  full  share  of  the  general  bow,  and  had  received  it  with 
infinite  condescension. 

"But  punch,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
tasting  it,  "  like  time  and  tide,  waits  for  no  man.  Ah!  it  is 
at  the  present  moment  in  high  flavor.  My  love,  will  you  give 
me  your  opinion  ?" 

Mrs.  Micawber  pronounced  it  excellent. 

"Then  I  will  drink,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "if  my  friend 
Copperfield  will  permit  me  to  take  that  social  liberty,  to  the 
days  when  my  friend  Copperfield  and  myself  were  younger, 
and  fought  our  way  in  the  world  side  by  side.  I  may  say,  of 
myself  and  Copperfield,  in  words  we  have  sung  together 
before  now,  that 

We  twa'  hae  run  about  the  braes 
And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine 

— in  a  figurative  point  of  view — on  several  occasions.  I  am 
not  exactly  aware,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  old  roll  in 
his  voice,  and  the  old  indescribable  air  of  saying  something 
genteel,  "  what  gowans  may  be,  but  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Copperfield  and  myself  would  frequently  have  taken  a  pull 
at  them,  if  it  had  been  feasible." 

Mr.  Micawber,  at  the  then  present  moment,  took  a  pull  at 
his  punch.  So  we  all  did  :  Traddles  evidently  lost  in  won- 
dering at  what  distant  time  Mr.  Micawber  and  I  could  pos- 
sibly have  been  comrades  in  the  battle  of  the  world. 

"Ahem!"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  clearing  his  throat,  and 
warming  with  the  punch  and  with  the  fire.  **  My  dear, 
another  glass  !" 

Mrs.  Micawber  said  it  must  be  very  little,  but  we  couldn't 
allow  that,  so  it  was  a  glassful. 

"As  we  are  quite  confidential  here,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  sipping  her  punch,  "  Mr.  Traddles  being  a 
part  of  our  domesticity,  I  should  much  like  to  have  your 
opinion  on  Mr.  Micawber's  prospects.  For  corn,"  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  argumentatively,  "  as  I  have  repeatedly  said  to 
Mr.  Micawber,  may  be  gentlemanly,  but  it  is  not  remunera- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  41S 

tive.  Commission  to  the  extent  of  two  and  nin^pence  in  a 
fortnight  cannot,  however  limited  our  ideas,  be  considered 
remunerative.'* 

We  all  agreed  upon  that. 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  prided  herself  on  taking 
a  clear  view  of  things,  and  keeping  Mr.  Micawber  straight 
by  her  woman's  wisdom,  when  he  might  otherwise  go  a  little 
crooked,  "then  I  ask  myself  this  question:  If  corn  is  not 
to  be  relied  upon,  what  is  ?  Are  coals  to  be  i^^lied  upon  ? 
Not  at  all.  We  have  turned  our  attention  to  that  experi- 
ment, on  the  suggestion  of  my  family,  and  we  find  it  falla- 
cious." 

Mr.  Micawber,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  eyed  us  aside,  and  nodded  his  head,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  the  case  was  very  clearly  put. 

"  The  articles  of  corn  and  coals,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
still  more  argumentatively,  "  being  equally  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, Mr.  Copperfield,  I  naturally  look  round  the  world,  and 
say,  *  What  is  there  in  which  a  person  of  Mr.  Micawber's 
talent  is  likely  to  succeed  ?'  And  I  exclude  the  doing  any- 
thing on  commission,  because  commission  is  not  a  certainty. 
What  is  best  suited  to  a  person  of  Mr.  Micawber's  peculiar 
temperament,  is,  I  am  convinced,  a  certainty." 

Traddles  and  I  both  expressed,  by  a  feeling  murmur,  that 
this  great  discovery  was  no  doubt  true  of  Mr.  Micawber  and 
that  it  did  him  much  credit. 

"  I  will  not  conceal  from  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield," 
said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  that  /  have  long  felt  the  Brewing 
business  to  be  particularly  adapted  to  Mr.  Micawber.  Look 
at  Barclay  and  Perkins!  Look  at  Truman,  Hanbury,  and 
Buxton  !  It  is  on  that  extensive  footing  that  Mr.  Micawber, 
I  know  from  my  own  knowledge  of  him,  is  calculated  to 
shine;  and  the  profits,  I  am  told,  are  e-NOR — mous!  But  if 
Mr.  Micawber  cannot  get  into  those  firms — which  decline  to 
answer  his  letters,  when  he  offers  his  services,  even  in  an  in- 
ferior capacity — what  is  the  use  of  dwelling  upon  that  idea  ? 
None.  I  may  have  a  conviction  that  Mr.  Micawber's  man- 
ners " — 

"  Hem!     Really,  my  dear,"  interposed  Mr.  Micawber. 

"  My  love,  be  silent,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  laying  her 
brown  glove  on  his  hand.  "  I  may  have  a  conviction,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  that  Mr.  Micawber's  manners  peculiarly  qualify 
him  for  the  Banking  business.     I  may  argue  within  myself, 


414  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

that  if  /  had  a  deposit  at  a  banking-house,  the  manners  of 
Mr.  Micawber,  as  representing  that  banking-house,  would  in- 
spire confidence,  and  must  extend  the  connexion.  But  if 
the  various  banking-houses  refuse  to  avail  themselves  of  Mr. 
Micawber's  abilities,  or  receive  the  offer  of  them  with  con- 
tumely, what  is  the  use  of  dwelling  upon  that  idea  ?  None. 
As  to  originating  a  banking  business,  I  may  know  that  there 
are  members  of  my  family  who,  if  they  chose  to  place  their 
money  in  Mr.  Micawber's  hands,  might  found  an  establish- 
ment of  that  description.  But  if  they  do  not  choose  to  place 
their  money  in  Mr.  Micawber's  hands — which  they  don't — 
what  is  the  use  of  that?  Again  I  contend  that  we  are  no 
farther  advanced  than  we  were  before." 

I  shook  my  head,  and  said,  "  Not  a  bit."  Traddles  also 
shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  Not  a  bit." 

"  What  do  I  deduce  from  this  ?"  Mrs.  Micawber  went  on 
to  say,  still  with  the  same  air  of  putting  a  case  lucidly. 
"  What  is  the  conclusion,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  to  which 
I  am  irresistibly  brought  ?  Am  I  wrong  in  saying,  it  is  clear 
that  we  must  live  ?" 

I  answered,  "  Not  at  all !"  and  Traddles  answered,  "  Not 
at  all !"  and  I  found  myself  afterwards  sagely  adding,  alone, 
that  a  person  must  either  live  or  die. 

"  Just  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  It  is  precisely  that. 
And  the  fact  is,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  we  can  7iot 
live  without  something  widely  different  from  existing  circum- 
stances shortly  turning  up.  Now  I  am  convinced,  myself, 
and  this  I  have  pointed  out  to  Mr.  Micawber  several  times 
of  late,  that  things  cannot  be  expected  to  turn  up  of  them- 
selves. We  must,  in  a  measure,  assist  to  turn  them  up.  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  I  have  formed  that  opinion." 

Both  Traddles  and  I  applauded  it  highly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  Then  what  do  I  re- 
commend ?  Here  is  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  variety  of  quali- 
fications— with  great  talent — " 

"  Really,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Micawber. 

*'  Pray,  my  dear,  allow  me  to  conclude.  Here  is  Mr.  Mic- 
awber, with  a  variety  of  qualifications,  with  great  talent — I 
should  say,  with  genius,  but  that  may  be  the  partiality  of  a 
wife—" 

Traddles  and  I  both  murmured  "  No." 

*'  And  here  is  Mr.  Micawber  without  any  suitable  position 
or    employment.     Where     does     that    responsibility    rest? 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  415 

Clearly  on  society.  Then  I  would  make  a  fact  so  disgrace- 
ful known,  and  boldly  challenge  society  to  set  it  right.  It 
appears  to  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber,  forcibly,  **  that  what  Mr.  Micawber  has  to  do,  is  to  throw 
down  the  gauntlet  to  society,  and  say  in  effect,  *  Show  me 
who  will  take  that  up.  Let  the  party  immediately  step  for- 
ward.' " 

I  ventured  to  ask  Mrs.  Micawber  how  this  was  to  be  done. 

"  By  advertising,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber — "  in  all  the  papers. 
It  appears  to  me,  that  what  Mr.  Micawber  has  to  do,  in 
justice  to  himself,  in  justice  to  his  family,  and  I  will  even  go 
so  far  as  to  say  in  justice  to  society,  by  which  he  has  been 
hitherto  overlooked,  is  to  advertise  in  all  the  papers;  to 
describe  himself  plainly  as  so  and  so,  with  such  and  such 
qualifications,  and  to  put  it  thus:  ^  Now  employ  me,  on 
remunerative  terms,  and  address,  post-paid,  to  W.  J/".,  Post 
Office,  Camden  Town.' " 

"This  idea  of  Mrs.  Micawber's,  my  dear  Copperfield," 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  making  his  shirt-collar  meet  in  front  of 
his  chin,  and  glancing  at  me  sideways,  "  is,  in  fact,  the  Leap 
to  which  I  alluded,  when  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you." 

"  Advertising  is  rather  expensive,"  I  remarked,  dubiously. 

"Exactly  so!"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  preserving  the  same 
logical  air.  "  Quite  true,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield!  I  have 
made  the  identical  observation  to  Mr.  Micawber.  It  is  for 
that  reason  especially,  that  I  think  Mr.  Micawber  ought  (as 
I  have  already  said,  in  justice  to  himself,  in  justice  to  his 
family,  and  in  justice  to  society)  to  raise  a  certain  sum  of 
money — on  a  bill.** 

Mr.  Micawber,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  trifled  with  his 
eye-glass,  and  cast  his  eyes  up  at  the  ceiling;  but  I  thought 
him  observant  of  Traddles  too,  who  was  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  If  no  member  of  my  family,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  is 
possessed  of  sufficient  natural  feeling  to  negotiate  that  bill 
— I  believe  there  is  a  better  business-term  to  express  what  I 
mean — " 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  eyes  still  cast  up  at  the  ceiling, 
suggested  "  Discount." 

"To  discount  that  bill,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "then  my 
opinion  is,  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  go  into  the  City,  should 
take  that  bill  into  the  Money  Market,  and  should  dispose  of 
it  for  what  he  can  get.     If  the  individuals  in  the  Money 


41  ff  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Market  oblige  Mr.  Micawber  to  sustain  a  great  sacrifice,  that 
is  between  themselves  and  their  consciences.  I  view  it, 
steadily,  as  an  investment.  I  recommend  Mr.  Micawber, 
my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  to  do  the  same;  to  regard  it  as  an 
investment  which  is  sure  of  return,  and  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  any  sacrifice." 

I  felt,  but  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  that  this  was  self- 
denying  and  devoted  in  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  I  uttered  a 
murmur  to  that  effect.  Traddles,  who  took  his  tone  from 
me,  did  likewise,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  finishing  her  punch, 
and  gathering  her  scarf  about  her  shoulders,  preparatory  to 
her  withdrawal  to  my  bed-room:  **  I  will  not  protract  these 
remarks  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Micawber's  pecuniary  affairs. 
At  your  fireside,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Traddles,  who,  though  not  so  old  a  friend,  is 
quite  one  of  ourselves,  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  you 
acquainted  with  the  course  I  advise  Mr.  Micawber  to  take. 
I  feel  that  the  time  is  arrived  when  Mr.  Micawber  should 
exert  himself  and — I  will  add — assert  himself,  and  it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  these  are  the  means.  I  am  aware  that  I 
am  merely  a  female,  and  that  a  masculine  judgment  is 
usually  considered  more  competent  to  the  discussion  of  such 
questions;  still  I  must  not  forget  that,  when  I  lived  at  home 
with  my  papa  and  mamma,  my  papa  was  in  the  habit  of  say- 
ing, *  Emma's  form  is  fragile,  but  her  grasp  of  a  subject  is 
inferior  to  none.*  That  my  papa  was  too  partial,  I  well 
know;  but  that  he  was  an  observer  of  character  in  some  de- 
gree  my  duty  and  my  reason  equally  forbid  me  to  doubt." 

With  these  words,  and  resisting  our  entreaties  that  she 
would  grace  the  remaining  circulation  of  the  punch  with 
her  presence,  Mrs.  Micawber  retired  to  my  bed-room.  And 
really  I  felt  that  she  was  a  noble  woman — the  sort  of  woman 
who  might  have  been  a  Roman  matron,  and  done  all  man- 
ner of  heroic  things,  in  times  of  public  trouble. 

In  the  fervor  of  this  impression,  I  congratulated  Mr.  Mic- 
awber on  the  treasure  he  possessed.  So  did  Traddles.  Mr. 
Micawber  extended  his  hand  to  each  of  us  in  succession, 
and  then  covered  his  face  with  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
which  I  think  had  more  snuff  upon  it  than  he  was  aware  of. 
He  then  returned  to  the  punch,  in  the  highest  state  of  ex- 
hilaration. 

He  was  full  of  eloquence.     He  gave  us  to  understand 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  417 

that  in  our  children  we  lived  again,  and  that,  under  the 
pressure  of  pecuniary  difficulties,  any  accession  to  their 
number  was  doubly  welcome.  He  said  that  Mrs.  Micawber 
had  latterly  had  her  doubts  on  this  point,  but  that  he  had 
dispelled  them,  and  reassured  her.  As  to  her  family,  they 
were  totally  unworthy  of  her,  and  their  sentiments  were  ut- 
terly indifferent  to  him,  and  they  might — I  quote  his  own 
expression — go  to  the  Devil. 

Mr.  Micawber  then  delivered  a  warm  eulogy  on  Traddles. 
He  said  Traddles's  was  a  character,  to  the  steady  virtues  of 
which  he  (Mr.  Micawber)  could  lay  no  claim,  but  which,  he 
thanked  Heaven,  he  could  admire.  He  feelingly  alluded  to 
the  young  lady,  unknown,  whom  Traddles  had  honored 
with  his  affection,  and  who  had  reciprocated  that  affection 
by  honoring  and  blessing  Traddles  with  her  affection.  Mr. 
Micawber  pledged  her.  So  did  I.  Traddles  thanked  us 
both,  by  saying,  with  a  simplicity  and  honesty  I  had  sense 
enough  to  be  quite  charmed  with,  "  1  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  indeed.  And  I  do  assure  you,  she's  the  dearest 
girl  !-" 

Mr.  Micawber  took  an  early  opportunity,  after  that,  of 
hinting,  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and  ceremony,  at  the  state 
of  my  affections.  Nothing  but  the  serious  assurance  of  his 
friend  Copperfield  to  the  contrary,  he  observed,  could  de- 
prive him  of  the  impression  that  his  friend  Copperfield  loved 
and  was  beloved.  After  feeling  very  hot  and  uncomfortable 
for  some  time,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  blushing,  stammer- 
ing, and  denying,  I  said,  having  my  glass  in  my  hand,  "  Well! 
I  would  give  them  D.  !"  which  so  excited  and  gratified  Mr. 
Micawber,  that  he  ran  with  a  glass  of  punch  into  my  bed- 
room, in  order  that  Mrs.  Micawber  might  drink  D.,  who 
drank  it  with  enthusiasm,  crying  from  within,  in  a  shrill 
voice,  "  Hear,  hear  !  My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  am  de- 
lighted.    Hear  !"  and  tapping  at  the  wall,  by  way  of  applause. 

Our  conversation,  afterwards,  took  a  more  worldly  turn; 
Mr.  Micawber  telling  us  that  he  found  Camden  Town  in- 
convenient, and  that  the  first  thing  he  contemplated  doing, 
when  the  advertisement  should  have  been  the  cause  of  some- 
thing satisfactory  turning  up,  was  to  move.  He  mentioned 
a  terrace  at  the  western  end  of  Oxford  Street,  fronting 
Hyde  Park,  on  which  he  had  always  had  his  eye,  but  which 
he  did  not  expect  to  attain  immediately,  as  it  would  require 
a  large  establishment.     There  would  probably  be  an  interval. 


41 8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

he  explained,  in  which  he  should  content  himself  with  the 
upper  part  of  a  house,  over  some  respectable  place  of  busi- 
ness,— say  in  Piccadilly, — which  would  be  a  cheerful  situ- 
ation for  Mrs.  Micawber:  and  where,  by  throwing  out  a  bow 
window,  or  carrying  up  the  roof  another  story,  or  making 
some  little  alteration  of  that  sort,  they  might  live,  comfor- 
tably and  reputably,  for  a  few  years.  Whatever  was  reserved 
for  him,  he  expressly  said,  or  whatever  his  abode  might  be, 
we  might  rely  on  this — there  would  always  be  a  room  for 
Traddles,  and  a  knife  and  fork  for  me.  We  acknowledged 
his  kindness;  and  he  begged  us  to  forgive  his  having  launch- 
ed into  these  practical  and  business-like  details,  and  to 
excuse  it  as  natural  in  one  who  was  making  entirely  new 
arrangements  in  life. 

Mrs.  Micawber,  tapping  at  the  wall  again,  to  know  if  tea 
were  ready,  broke  up  this  particular  phase  of  our  friendly 
conversation.  She  made  tea  for  us  in  a  most  agreeable 
manner;  and,  whenever  I  went  near  her,  in  handing  about 
the  tea-cups  and  bread-and-butter,  asked  me,  in  a  whisper, 
whether  D.  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  whether  she  was  short,  or 
tall:  or  something  of  that  kind;  which  I  think  I  liked.  After 
tea  we  discussed  a  variety  of  topics  before  the  fire;  and 
Mrs.  Micawber  was  good  enough  to  sing  us  (in  the  small, 
thin,  flat  voice,  which  I  remember  to  have  considered,  when 
I  first  knew  her,  the  very  table-beer  of  acoustics)the  favorite 
ballads  of  "  The  Dashing  White  Sergeant,"  and  "  Little 
Tafflin."  For  both  of  these  songs  Mrs.  Micawber  had  been 
famous  when  she  lived  at  home  with  her  papa  and  mamma. 
Mr.  Micawber  told  us,  that  when  he  heard  her  sing  the 
first  one,  on  the  first  occasion  of  his  seeing  her  beneath  the 
parental  roof,  she  had  attracted  his  attention  in  an  extraor- 
dinary degree;  but  that  when  it  came  to  Little  Tafflin,  he 
had  resolved  to  win  that  woman  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

It  was  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber rose  to  replace  her  cap  in  the  whity-brown  paper  parcel, 
and  to  put  on  her  bonnet.  Mr.  Micawber  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  Traddles  putting  on  his  great  coat,  to  slip  a  letter 
into  my  hand,  with  a  whispered  request  that  I  would  read 
it  at  my  leisure.  I  also  took  the  opportunity  of  my  holding 
a  candle  over  the  banisters  to  light  them  down,  when  Mr. 
Micawber  was  going  first,  leading  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  Trad- 
dles was  following  with  the  cap,  to  detain  Traddles  for  a 
moment  on  the  top  of  the  stairs. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  419 

"  Traddles,"  said  I,  '*  Mr.  Micawber  don*t  mean  any  harm, 
poor  fellow;  but,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  lend  him  anything." 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  returned  Traddles,  smiling,  "  1 
haven't  got  anything  to  lend." 

"  You  have  got  a  name,  you  know,"  said  I. 

"  Oh  ?  You  call  that  something  to  lend,"  returned  Traddles, 
with  a  thoughtful  look. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Traddles.  "  Yes,  to  be  sure  !  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  Copperfield;  but — I  am  afraid  I  have  lent 
him  that  already." 

"  For  the  bill  that  is  to  be  a  certain  investment  ?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  No,"  said  Traddles.  "  Not  for  that  one.  This  is  the  first 
I  have  heard  of  that  one.  I  have  been  thinking  that  he  will 
most  likely  propose  that  one,  on  the  way  home.  Mine's 
another." 

"  I  hope  there  will  be  nothing  wrong  about  ft,"  said  I. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Traddles.  ''  I  should  think  not,  though, 
because  he  told  me,  only  the  other  day,  that  it  was  provided 
for.     That  was  Mr.  Micawber's  expression.  '  Provided  for.'  " 

Mr.  Micawber  looking  up  at  this  juncture  to  where  we 
were  standing,  I  had  only  time  to  repeat  my  caution.  Trad- 
dles thanked  me,  and  descended.  But  I  was  much  afraid, 
when  I  observed  the  good-natured  manner  in  which  he  went 
down  with  the  cap  in  his  hand,  and  gave  Mrs.  Micawber  his 
arm,  that  he  would  be  carried  into  the  Money  Market  neck 
and  heels. 

I  returned  to  my  fireside,  and  was  musing,  half  gravely 
and  half  laughing,  on  the  character  of  Mr.  Micawber  and 
the  old  relations  between  us,  when  I  heard  a  quick  step 
ascending  the  stairs.  At  first,  I  thought  it  was  Traddles 
coming  back  for  something  Mrs.  Micawber  had  left  behind; 
but  as  the  step  approached,  I  knew  it,  and  felt  my  heart 
beat  high,  and  the  blood  rush  to  my  face,  for  it  was  Steer- 
forth's. 

I  was  never  unmindful  of  Agnes,  and  she  never  left  that 
sanctuary  in  my  thoughts — if  I  may  call  it  so — where  I  had 
placed  her  from  the  first.  But  when  he  entered,  and  stood 
before  me  with  his  hand  out,  the  darkness  that  had  fallen  on 
him  changed  to  light,  and  I  felt  confounded  and  ashamed  of 
having  doubted  one  I  loved  so  heartily.  I  loved  her  none 
the  less;  I  thought  of  her  as  the  same  benignant,  ^gentle 


420  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

angel  in  my  life;  I  reproached  myself,  not  her,  with  having 
done  him  an  injury;  and  I  would  have  made  him  any  atone- 
ment if  I  had  known  what  to  make,  and  how  to  make  it. 

*'  Why,  Daisy,  old  boy,  dumb-foundered  !"  laughed  Steer- 
forth,  shaking  my  hand  heartily,  and  throwing  it  gaily  away. 
**  Have  I  detected  you  in  another  feast,  you  Sybarite!  These 
Doctors'  Commons  fellows  are  the  gayest  men  in  town,  I  be- 
lieve, and  beat  us  sober  Oxford  people  all  to  nothing  !"  His 
bright  glance  went  merrily  round  the  room,  as  he  took  his 
seat  on  the  sofa  opposite  to  me,  which  Mrs.  Micawber  had 
recently  vacated,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze. 

"  I  was  so  surprised  at  first,"  said  I,  giving  him  a  welcome 
with  all  the  cordiality  I  felt,  "  that  I  had  hardly  breath  to 
greet  you  with,  Steerforth." 

"  Well,  the  sight  of  me  is  good  for  sore  eyes,  as  the  Scotch 
say,"  replied  Steerforth,  "  and  so  is  the  sight  of  you,  Daisy, 
in  full  bloom.     How  are  you,  my  Bacchanal  !" 

"  I  am  very  well,"  said  I;  "  and  not  at  all  Bacchanalian  to- 
night, though  I  confess  to  another  party  of  three." 

"All  of  whom  I  met  in  the  street,  talking  loud  in  your 
praise,"  returned  Steerforth.  "  Who's  our  friend  in  the 
tights  ?" 

I  gave  him  the  best  idea  I  could,  in  a  few  words,  of  Mr. 
Micawber.  He  laughed  heartily  at  my  feeble  portrait  of 
that  gentleman,  and  said  he  was  a  man  to  know,  and  he  must 
know  him. 

"  But  who  do  you  suppose  our  other  friend  is  ?"  said  I,  in 
mv  turn. 

"  Heaven  knows,"  said  Steerforth.    "  Not  a  bore  I  hope  ?   I 
thought  he  looked  a  little  Hke  one." 
*'  Traddles  !"  I  repUed  triumphantly. 
''  Who's  he  ?"  asked  Steerforth,  in  a  careless  way. 
''  Don't  you  remember  Traddles  ?    Traddles  in  our  room  at 
Salem  House  ?" 

"  Oh  !  That  fellow  ?"  said  Steerforth,  beating  a  lump  of 
coal  on  the  top  of  the  fire,  with  a  poker.  "  Is  he  as  soft  as 
ever  ?     And  where  the  deuce  did  you  pick  him  up  ?" 

I  extolled  Traddles  in  reply,  as  highly  as  I  could;  for  I 
felt  that  Steerforth  rather  slighted  him.  Steerforth,  dismiss- 
ing the  subject  with  a  light  nod,  and  a  smile,  and  the  remark 
that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  the  old  fellow  too,  for  he  had 
always  been  an  odd  fish,  inquired  if  I  could  give  him  any- 
thing to  eat  ?     During  the  most  of  this  short  dialogue,  when 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  421 

he  had  not  been  speaking  in  a  wild  vivacious  manner,  he  had 
sat  idly  beating  on  the  lump  of  coal  with  the  poker.  I  ob- 
served that  he  did  the  same  thing  while  I  was  getting  out  the 
remains  of  the  pigeon-pie,  and  so  forth. 

"Why,  Daisy,  here's  a  supper  for  a  kin^  !"  he  exclaimed, 
starting  out  of  his  silence  with  a  burst,  ahd  taking  his  seat 
at  the  table.  "  I  shall  do  it  justice,  for  I  have  come  from 
Yarmouth." 

"  I  thought  you  came  from  Oxford  ?"  I  returned. 
"  Not  I,"  said  Steerforth.     **  I  have  been  seafaring — better 
employed." 

"  Littimer  was  here  to-day,  to  inquire  for  you,"  I  re- 
marked, "  and  I  understood  him  that  you  were  at  Oxford, 
though  now  I  think  of  it,  he  certainly  did  not  say  so." 

"  Littimer  is  a  greater  fool  than  I  thought  him,  to  have 
been  inquiring  for  me  at  all,"  said  Steerforth,  jovially  pour- 
ing out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  drinking  to  me.  "  As  to  under- 
standing him,  you  are  a  cleverer  fellow  than  most  of  us, 
Daisy,  if  you  can  do  that." 

''That's  true,  indeed,"  said  I,  moving  my  chair  to  the 
table.     "  So  you  have  been  at  Yarmouth,  Steerforth  !''  inter- 
ested to  know  all  about  it.     "  Have  you  been  there  long  ?" 
"  No,"  he  returned.     "An  escapade  of  a  week  or  so." 
"And  how  are  they  all?     Of  course,  little  Em'ly  is  not 
married  yet  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Going  to  be,  I  believe — in  so  many  weeks,  or 
months,  or  something  or  other.  I  have  not  seen  much  of 
'em.  By-the-by;"  he  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  which 
he  had  been  using  with  great  diligence,  and  began  feeling 
in  his  pocket ;  "  I  have  a  letter  for  you." 
"  From  whom  ?" 

"Why,  from  your  old  nurse,"  he  returned,  taking  some 
papers  out  of  his  breast  pocket.  "  '  J.  Steerforth,  Esquire, 
debtor  to  the  Willing  Mind;'  that's  not  it.  Patience  and  we'll 
find  it  presently.  '  Old  what's-his-name's  in  a  bad  way,  and 
it's  about  that,  I  believe." 
"  Barkis,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,"  still  feeling  in  his  pockets,  and  looking  over  their 
contents:  "  it's  all  over  with  poor  Barkis,  I  am  afraid.  I 
saw  a  little  apothecary  there — surgeon,  or  whatever  he  is — 
who  brought  your  worship  into  the  world.  He  was  mighty 
learned  about  the  case,  to  me;  but  the  upshot  of  his  opinion 
was,  that  the  carrier  was  making  his  last  journey  rather  fast 


422  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

— Put  your  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  my  great  coat  on 
the  chair  yonder,  and  I  think  you'll  find  the  letter.  Is  it 
there  ?" 

"  Here  it  is!"  said  I. 

"  That's  right!"^ 

It  was  from  Peggotty;  something  less  legible  than  usual, 
and  brief.  It  informed  me  of  her  husband's  hopeless  state, 
and  hinted  at  his  being  "  a  little  nearer"  than  heretofore, 
and  consequently  more  difficult  to  manage  for  his  own  com- 
fort. It  said  nothing  of  her  weariness  and  watching,  and 
praised  him  highly.  It  was  written  with  a  plain,  unaffected, 
homely  piety,  that  I  knew  to  be  genuine,  and  ended  with 
"  my  duty  to  my  ever  darling  " — meaning  myself. 

While  I  deciphered  it,  Steerforth  continued  to  eat  and  drink. 

"  It's  a  bad  job,"  he  said,  when  I  had  done;  "  but  the  sun 
sets  every  day,  and  people  die  every  minute,  and  we  mustn't 
be  scared  by  the  common  lot.  If  we  fail  to  hold  our  own, 
because  that  equal  foot  at  all  men's  doors  was  heard  knock- 
ing somewhere,  every  object  in  this  world  would  slip  from 
us.  No!  Ride  on!  Rough-shod  if  need  be,  smooth-shod 
if  that  will'do,  but  ride  on!  Ride  overall  obstacles  and  win 
the  race!" 

"  And  win  what  race  ?"  said  I. 

"  The  race  that  one  has  started  in,"  said  he.     "  Ride  on." 

I  noticed,  I  remember,  as  he  paused,  looking  at  me  with 
his  handsome  head  a  little  thrown  back,  and  his  glass  raised  in 
his  hand,  that,  though  the  freshness  of  the  sea-wind  was  on 
his  face,  and  it  was  ruddy,  there  were  traces  in  it,  made  since 
I  last  saw  it,  as  if  he  had  applied  himself  to  some  habitual 
strain  of  the  fervent  energy  which,  when  roused,  was  so 
passionately  roused  within  him.  I  had  it  in  my  thoughts  to 
remonstrate  with  him  upon  his  desperate  way  of  pursuing 
any  fancy  that  he  took — such  as  this  buffeting  of  rough  seas, 
and  braving  of  hard  weather,  for  example — when  my  mind 
glanced  off  to  the  immediate  subject  of  our  conversation 
again,  and  pursued  that  instead. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Steerforth,"  said  I,  "  if  your  high  spirits 
will  listen  to  me" — 

"  They  are  potent  spirits,  and  will  do  whatever  you  like," 

he  answered,  moving  from  the  table  to  the  fireside  again. 

.  "  Then  I  tell  you  what,  Steerforth,  I  think  I  will  go  down 

and  see  my  old  nurse.  It  is  not  that  I  can  do  her  any  good, 

or  render  her  any  real  service;  but  she  is  so  attached  to  me 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  423 

that  my  visit  will  have  as  much  effect  on  her,  as  if  I  could 
do  both.  She  will  take  it  so  kindly  that  it  will  be  a  comfort 
and  support  to  her.  It  is  no  great  effort  to  make,  I  am  sure, 
for  such  a  friend  as  she  has  been  to  me.  Wouldn't  you  go 
a  day's  journey,  if  you  were  in  my  place  ?" 

His  face  was  thoughtful,  and  he  sat  considering  a  little 
before  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Well!  Go.  You  can 
do  no  harm." 

"  You  have  just  come  back,"  said  I,  "  and  it  would  be  in 
vain  to  ask  you  to  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Quite,"  he  returned.  "  I  am  for  Highgate  to-night.  I 
have  not  seen  my  mother  this  long  time,  and  it  lies  upon  my 
conscience,  for  it's  something  to  be  loved  as  she  loves  her 
prodigal  son. — Bah!  Nonsense! — You  mean  to  go  to-mor- 
row, I  suppose  .<*"  he  said,  holding  me  out  at  arm's  length, 
with  a  hand  on  each  of  my  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  go  till  next  day.  I  wanted  you  to  come 
and  stay  a  few  days  with  us.  Here  I  am,  on  purpose  to  bid 
you,  and  you  fly  off  to  Yarmouth!" 

"  You  are  a  nice  fellow  to  talk  of  flying  off,  Steerforth, 
who  are  always  running  wild  on  some  unknown  expedition 
or  other!" 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  and  then 
rejoined,  still  holding  me  as  before,  and  giving  me  a  shake: 

"  Come!  Say  the  next  day,  and  pass  as  much  of  to-mor- 
row as  you  can  with  us!  Who  knows  when  we  may  meet 
again,  else  ?  Come!  Say  the  next  day!  I  want  you  to 
stand  between  Rosa  Dartle  and  me,  and  keep  us  asunder," 

"  Would  you  love  each  other  too  much  without  me!" 

"Yes;  or  hate,"  laughed  Steerforth;  "no  matter  which. 
Come!     Say  the  next  day!" 

I  said  the  next  day;  and  he  put  on  his  great-coat,  and 
lighted  his  cigar,  and  set  off  to  walk  home.  Finding  him  in 
this  intention,  I  put  on  my  own  great-coat  (but  did  not  light 
my  own  cigar,  having  had  enough  of  that  for  one  while)  and 
walked  with  him  as  far  as  the  open  road:  a  dull  road,  then, 
at  night.  He  was  in  great  spirits  all  the  way;  and  when  we 
parted,  and  I  looked  after  him  going  so  gallantly  and  airily 
homeward,  I  thought  of  his  saying  "  Ride  on  over  all  ob- 
stacles, and  win  the  racel"  and  wished,  for  the  first  time, 
that  he  had  some  worthy  race  to  run. 

I  was  undressing  in  my  own  room,  when  Mr.  Micawber's 


424  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

letter  tumbled  on  the  floor.  Thus  reminded  of  it,  I  broke 
the  seal  and  read  as  follows.  It  was  dated  an  hour  and  a 
half  before  dinner.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  have  mentioned 
that,  when  Mr.  Micawber  was  at  any  particularly  desperate 
crisis,  he  used  a  sort  of  legal  phraseology:  which  he  seemed 
to  think  equivalent  to  winding  up  his  affairs. 

"  Sir — for  I  dare  not  say,  my  dear  Copperfield. 

"  It  is  expedient  that  I  should  inform  you  that  the  under- 
signed is  Crushed.  Some  flickering  efforts  to  spare  you  the 
premature  knowledge  of  his  calamitous  position,  you  may 
observe  in  him  this  day;  but  hope  has  sunk  beneath  the 
horizon,  and  the  Undersigned  is  Crushed. 

"  The  present  communication  is  penned  within  the  per- 
sonal range  (I  cannot  call  it  the  society)  of  an  individual, 
in  a  state  closely  bordering  on  intoxication,  employed  by  a 
broker.  That  individual  is  in  legal  possession  of  the  prem- 
ises, under  a  distress  for  rent.  His  inventory  includes,  not 
only  the  chatties  and  effects  of  every  description  belonging 
to  the  undersigned,  as  yearly  tenant  of  this  habitation,  but 
also  those  appertaining  to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  lodger,  a 
member  of  the  Honorable  Society  of  the  Inner  Temple. 

*'  If  any  drop  of  gloom  were  wanting  in  the  overflowing 
cup,  which  is  now  *  commended '  (in  the  language  of  an  im- 
mortal Writer)  to  the  lips  of  the  undersigned,  it  would  be 
found  in  the  fact,  that  a  friendly  acceptance  granted  to  the 
undersigned,  by  the  before-mentioned  Mr.  Thomas  Trad- 
dles, for  the  sum  of  j[^2'7^  4^.  9^^/.  is  over  due,  and  is  not 
provided  for.  Also,  in  the  fact,  that  the  living  responsibil- 
ities clinging  to  the  undersigned,  will,  in  the  course  of  na- 
ture, be  increased  by  the  sum  of  one  more  helpless  victim; 
whose  miserable  appearance  may  be  looked  for — in  round 
numbers — at  the  expiration  of  a  period  not  exceeding  six 
lunar  months  from  the  present  date. 

"  After  premising  thus  much,  it  would  be  a  work  of  sup- 
ererogation to  add,  that  dust  and  ashes  are  for  ever  scat- 
tered 

"On 
"  The 
"  Head 
"  Of 

"WiLKiNS  Micawber." 

Poor  Traddles!     I  knew  enough  of  Mr.  Micawber  by  this 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  425 

time,  to  foresee  that  he  might  be  expected  to  recover  the 
blow;  but  my  night's  rest  was  sorely  distressed  by  thoughts 
of  Traddles,  and  of  the  curate's  daughter,  who  was  one  of 
ten,  down  in  Devonshire,  and  who  was  such  a  dear  girl,  and 
who  would  wait  for  Traddles  (ominous  phrase!)  until  she 
was  sixty  or  any  age  that  could  be  mentioned. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

I   VISIT    STEERFORTH    AT    HIS   HOME    AGAIN. 

I  MENTIONED  to  Mr.  Spenlow  in  the  morning,  that  I 
wanted  leave  of  absence  for  a  short  time,  and  as  I  was  not 
in  the  receipt  of  any  salary,  and  consequently  was  not  ob- 
noxious to  the  implacable  Jorkins,  there  was  no  difficulty 
about  it.  I  took  that  opportunity,  with  my  voice  sticking 
in  my  throat,  and  my  sight  failing  as  I  uttered  the  words,  to 
express  my  hope  that  Miss  Spenlow  was  quite  well;  to  which 
Mr.  Spenlow  replied,  with  no  more  emotion  than  if  he  had 
been  speaking  of  an  ordinary  human  being,  that  he  was 
much  obliged  to  me,  and  she  was  very  well. 

We  articled  clerks,  as  germs  of  the  patrician  order  of 
proctors,  were  treated  with  so  much  consideration,  that  I 
was  almost  my  own  master  at  all  times.  As  I  did  not  care, 
however,  to  get  to  Highgate  before  one  or  two  o'clock  in 
the  day,  and  as  we  had  another  little  excommunication  case 
in  court  that  morning,  which  was  called  The  office  of  the 
Judge  promoted  by  Tipkins  against  Bullock  for  his  soul's 
correction,  I  passed  an  hour  or  two  in  attendance  on  it  with 
Mr.  Spenlow  very  agreeably.  It  arose  out  of  a  scuffle  be- 
tween two  churchwardens,  one  of  whom  was  alleged  to  have 
pushed  the  other  against  a  pump;  the  handle  of  which  pump 
projecting  into  a  school-house,  which  school-house  was  un- 
der a  gable  of  the  church  roof,  made  the  push  an  ecclesias- 
tical offence.  It  was  an  amusing  case;  and  sent  me  up  to 
Highgate,  on  the  box  of  the  stage-coach,  thinking  about  the 
Commons,  and  what  Mr.  Spenlow  had  said  about  touching 
the  Commons  and  bringing  down  the  country. 

Mrs.  Steerforth  was  pleased  to  see  me,  and  so  also  was 
Rosa  Dartle.  I  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  that  Litti- 
mer  was  not  there,  and  that  we  were  attended  by  a  modest 
little  parlor-maid,  with  blue  ribbons  in  her  cap,  whose  eye 


425  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

it  was  much  more  pleasant,  and  much  less  disconcerting,  to 
catch  by  accident,  than  the  eye  of  that  respectable  man. 
But  what  I  particularly  observed,  before  I  had  been  half 
an  hour  in  the  house,  was  the  close  and  attentive  watch 
Miss  Dartle  kept  upon  me;  and  the  lurking  manner  in  which 
she  seemed  to  compare  my  face  with  Steerforth's,  and  Steer- 
forth's  with  mine,  and  to  lie  in  wait  for  something  to  come 
out  between  the  two.  So  surely  as  I  looked  towards  her, 
did  I  see  that  eager  visage,  with  its  gaunt  black  eyes  and 
searching  brow,  intent  on  mine;  or  passing  suddenly  from 
mine  to  Steerforth's;  or  comprehending  both  of  us  at  once. 
In  this  lynx-like  scrutiny  she  was  so  far  from  faltering 
when  she  saw  I  observed  it,  that  at  such  a  time  she  only 
fixed  her  piercing  look  upon  me  with  a  more  intent  ex- 
pression still.  Blameless  as  I  was,  and  knew  that  I  was,  in 
reference  to  any  wrong  she  could  possibly  suspect  me  of,  I 
shrunk  before  her  strange  eyes,  quite  unable  to  endure  their 
angry  luster. 

All  day,  she  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  house.  If  I 
talked  to  Steerforth  in  his  room,  I  heard  her  dress  rustle  in 
the  little  gallery  outside.  When  he  and  I  engaged  in  some  . 
of  our  old  exercises  on  the  lawn  behind  the  house,  I  saw 
her  face  pass  from  window  to  window,  like  a  wandering 
light,  until  it  fixed  itself  in  one,  and  watched  us.  When  we 
all  four  went  out  walking  in  the  afternoon,  she  closed  her 
thin  hand  on  my  arm  like  a  spring,  to  keep  me  back,  while 
Steerforth  and  his  mother  went  on  out  of  hearing:  and  then 
spoke  to  me. 

"You  have  been  a  long  time,"  she  said,  "without  coming 
here.  Is  your  profession  really  so  engaging  and  interesting 
as  to  absorb  your  whole  attention?  I  ask  because  I  always 
want  to  be  informed,  when  I  am  ignorant.  Is  it  really, 
though?" 

I  replied  that  I  liked  it  well  enough,  but  that  I  certainly 
could  not  claim  so  much  for  it. 

"Oh!  I  am  glad  to  know  that,  because  I  always  like  to 
be  put  right  when  I  am  wrong,"  said  Rosa  Dartle.  "  You 
mean  it  is  a  little  dry,  perhaps?" 

Well,  I  replied;  perhaps  it  was  a  little  dry. 

"  Oh!  and  that's  a  reason  why  you  want  relief  and  change 
— excitement,  and  all  that?"  said  she.  "Ah!  very  true!  But 
isn't  it  a  little Eh? — for  him;  I  don't  mean  you?" 

A  quick  glance  of  her  eye  towards  the  spot  where  Steer- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  427 

forth  was  walking,  with  his  mother  leaning  on  his  arm, 
showed  me  whom  she  meant;  but  beyond  that  I  was  quite 
lost.     And  I  looked  so,  I  have  no  doubt. 

"  Don't  it — I  don't  say  that  it  does^  mind  I  want  to  know 
— don't  it  rather  engross  him?  Don't  it  make  him,  perhaps, 
a  little  more  remiss  than  usual  in  his  visits  to  his  blindly 
doting — eh?"  With  another  quick  glance  at  them,  and  such 
a  glance  at  me  as  seemed  to  look  into  my  innermost 
thoughts. 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  I  returned,  "  pray  do  not  think — " 

"  I  don't!"  she  said.  "  Oh,  dear  me,  don't  suppose  that 
I  think  anything!  I  am  not  suspicious.  I  only  ask  a  ques- 
tion. I  don't  state  any  opinion.  I  want  to  found  an  opin- 
ion on  what  you  tell  me.  Then,  it's  not  so?  Well!  I  am 
very  glad  to  know  it." 

"  It  certainly  is  not  the  fact,"  said  I,  perplexed,  "  that  I 
am  accountable  for  Steerforth's  having  been  away  from 
home  longer  than  usual — if  he  has  been:  which  I  really 
don't  know  at  this  moment,  unless  I  understand  it  from  you, 
I  have  not  seen  him  this  long  while,  until  last  night." 

"No?" 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Dartle,  no." 

As  she  looked  full  at  me,  I  saw  her  face  grow  sharper  and 
paler,  and  the  marks  of  the  old  wound  lengthened  out  until 
it  cut  through  the  disfigured  lip,  and  deep  into  the  nether 
lip,  and  slanted  down  the  face.  There  was  something  posi- 
tively awful  to  me  in  this,  and  in  the  brightness  of  her  eyes, 
as  she  said,  looking  fixedly  at  me: 

"What  is  he  doing?" 

1  repeated  the  words,  more  to  myself  than  her,  being  so 
amazed. 

"  What  is  he  doing?"  she  said,  with  an  eagerness  that 
seemed  enough  to  consume  her  like  a  fire.  "  In  what  is 
that  man  assisting  him,  who  never  looks  at  me  without  an 
inscrutable  falsehood  in  his  eyes?  If  you  are  honorable  and 
faithful,  I  don't  ask  you  to  betray  your  friend.  I  ask  you 
only  to  tell  me,  is  it  anger,  is  it  hatred,  is  it  pride,  is  it  rest- 
lessness, is  it  some  wild  fancy,  is  it  love,  what  is  it,  that  is 
leading  him?" 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  I  returned,  "how  shall  I  tell  you,  so  that 
you  will  believe  me,  that  I  know  nothing  in  Steerforth  dif- 
ferent from  what  there  was  when  I  first  came  here.  I  can 
think  of  nothing.  I  firmly  believe  there  is  nothing.  I  hard- 
ly understand,  even   what  you  mean." 


42S  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

As  she  still  looked  fixedly  at  me,  a  twitching  or  throb, 
bing,  from  which  I  could  not  dissociate  the  idea  of  pain 
came  into  that  cruel  mark;  and  lifted  up  the  corner  of  her 
lip  as  if  with  scorn,  or  with  a  pity  that  despised  its  object. 
She  put  her  hand  upon  it  hurriedly — a  hand  so  thin  and 
delicate,  that  when  I  had  seen  her  hold  it  up  before  the  fire 
to  shade  her  face,  I  had  compared  it  in  my  thoughts  to  fine 
porcelain — and  saying,  in  a  quick,  fierce,  passionate  way, 
"  I  swear  you  to  secrecy  about  this!"  said  not  a  word  more. 

Mrs.  Steerforth  was  particularly  happy  in  her  son's  socie- 
ty, and  Steerforth  was,  on  this  occasion,  particularly  atten- 
tive and  respectful  to  her.  It  was  very  interesting  to  me  to 
see  them  together,  not  only  on  account  of  their  mutual  af- 
fection, but  because  of  the  strong  personal  resemblance  be- 
tween them,  and  the  manner  in  which  what  was  haughty  and 
impetuous  in  him  was  softened  by  age  and  sex,  in  her,  to  a 
gracious  dignity.  I  thought,  more  than  once,  that  it  was 
well  no  serious  cause  of  division  had  ever  come  between 
them;  or  two  such  natures — I  ought  rather  to  express  it,  two 
such  shades  of  the  same  nature — might  have  been  harder  to 
reconcile  than  the  two  extremest  opposites  in  creation.  The 
idea  did  not  originate  in  my  own  discernment,  and  I  am 
bound  to  confess  in  a  speech  of  Rosa  Dartle's. 

She  said  at  dinner: 

"  Oh,  but  do  tell  me,  though,  somebody,  because  I  have 
been  thinking  about  it  all  day,  and  I  want  to  know." 

"  You  want  to  know  what,  Rosa  ?"  returned  Mrs.  Steer- 
forth.    "Pray,  pray,  Rosa,  do  not  be  mysterious." 

"Mysterious!"  she  cried.  "Oh!  really?  Do  you  consider 
me  so?" 

"  Do  I  constantly  entreat  you,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  "  to 
speak  plainly,  in  your  own  natural  manner?" 

"Oh!  then,  this  is  ?2of  my  natural  manner?"  she  rejoined. 
"  Now  you  must  really  bear  with  me,  because  I  ask  for  in- 
formation.    We  never  know  ourselves." 

"  It  has  become  a  second  nature,"  said  Mrs  Steerforth, 
without  any  displeasure;  "but  I  remember, — and  so  must 
you,  I  think — when  your  manner  was  different,  Rosa;  when 
it  was  not  so  guarded,  and  was  more  trustful." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  right,"  she  returned;  "and  so  it  is 
that  bad  habits  grow  upon  one!  Really?  Less  guarded  and 
more  trustful?  How  can  I,  imperceptibly,  have  changed,  I 
wonder!  Well,  that's  very  odd!  I  must  study  to  regain 
my  former  self." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  429 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh!  I  really  will,  you  know!"  she  answered.  "I  will 
learn  frankness  from — let  me  see — from  James." 

"  You  cannot  learn  frankness,  Rosa,"  said  Mrs.  Steer- 
forth,  quickly — for  there  was  always  some  effect  of  sarcasm 
in  what  Rosa  Dartle  said,  though  it  was  said,  as  this  was,  in 
the  most  unconscious  manner  in  the  world — *'  in  a  better 
school." 

"  That  I  am  sure  of,"  she  answered,  with  uncommon  fer- 
vor. "  If  I  am  sure  of  anything,  of  course,  you  know,  I  am 
sure  of  that." 

Mrs.  Steerforth  appeared  to  me  to  regret  having  been  a 
little  nettled;  for  she  presently  said,  in  a  kind  tone: 

"  Well,  my  dear  Rosa,  we  have  not  heard  whatsit  is  that 
you  want  to  be  satisfied  about?" 

"  That  I  want  to  be  satisfied  about?"  she  replied,  with 
provoking  coldness.  "  Oh!  It  was  only  whether  people, 
who  are  like  each  other  in  their  moral  constitution — is  that 
the  phrase?" 

"  It's  as  good  a  phrase  as  another,"  said  Steerforth. 

"  Thank  you: — whether  people,  who  are  like  each  other 
in  their  moral  constitution,  are  in  greater  danger  than  peo- 
ple not  so  circumstanced,  supposing  any  serious  cause  of 
variance  to  rise  between  them,  of  being  divided  angrily 
and  deeply?" 

"  I  should  say  yes,"  said  Steerforth. 

"Should  you?"  she  returned.  "Dear  me!  Supposing, 
then,  for  instance, — any  unlikely  thing  will  do  for  a  suppo- 
sition,— that  you  and  your  mother  were  to  have  a  serious 
quarrel." 

"  My  dear  Rosa,"  interposed  Mrs.  Steerforth,  laughing 
good-naturedly,  "  suggest  some  other  supposition!  James 
and  I  know  our  duty  to  each  other  better,  I  pray  Heaven!" 

"  OhI"  said  Miss  Dartle,  nodding  her  head  thoughtfully. 
"To  be  sure.  77z^/ would  prevent  it?  Why,  of  course  it 
would.  Ex-actly.  Now,  I  am  glad  I  have  been  so  fool- 
ish as  to  put  the  case,  for  it  is  so  very  good  to  know 
that  your  duty  to  each  other  would  prevent  it!  Thank  you 
very  much." 

One  other  little  circumstance  connected  with  Miss  Dartle 
I  must  not  omit;  for  I  had  reason  to  remember  it  thereafter, 
when  all  the  irremediable  past  was  rendered  plain.  During 
the  whole  of  this  day,  but  especially  from  this  period  of  it, 


430  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Steerforth  exerted  himself  with  his  utmost  skill,  and  that 
was  with  his  utmost  ease,  to  charm  this  singular  creature  in- 
to a  pleasant  and  pleased  companion.  That  he  should  suc- 
ceed, was  no  matter  of  surprise  to  me.  That  she  should 
struggle  against  the  fascinating  influence  of  his  delightful 
art — delightful  nature  I  thought  it  then— did  not  surprise 
me  either;  for  I  knew  that  she  was  sometimes  jaundiced  and 
perverse.  I  saw  her  features  and  her  manner  slowly  change; 
I  saw  her  look  at  him  with  growing  admiration;  I  saw  her 
try,  more  and  more  faintly,  but  always  angrily,  as  if  she  con- 
demned a  weakness  in  herself,  to  resist  the  captivating 
power  that  he  possessed;  and  finally  I  saw  her  sharp  glance 
soften,  and  her  smile  become  quite  gentle,  and  I  ceased  to 
be  afraict  of  her  as  I  had  really  been  all  day,  and  we  all  sat 
about  the  fire,  talking  and  laughing  together,  with  as  little 
reserve  as  if  we  had  been  children. 

Whether  it  was  because  we  had  sat  there  so  long,  or  be- 
cause Steerforth  was  resolved  not  to  lose  the  advantage  he 
had  gained,  I  do  not  know;  but  we  did  not  remain  in  the  din- 
ing-room more  than  five  minutes  after  her  departure.  *'  She 
is  playing  her  harp,"  said  Steerforth,  softly,  at  the  drawing- 
room  door,  "  and  nobody  but  my  mother  has  heard  her  do 
that,  I  believe,  these  three  years."  He  said  it  with  a  curious 
smile,  which  was  gone  directly;  and  we  went  into  the  room 
and  found  her  alone. 

"  Don't  get  up  !"  said  Steerforth  (which  she  had  already 
done);  "my  dear  Rosa,  don't!  Be  kind  for  once,  and  sing 
us  an  Irish  song." 

"  What  do  you  care  for  an  Irish  song  ?"  she  returned. 

**Much!"  said  Steerforth.  "Much  more  than  for  any 
other.  Here  is  Daisy,  too,  loves  music  from  his  soul.  Sing 
us  an  Irish  song,  Rosa  !  and  let  me  sit  and  listen  as  I  used 
to  do." 

He  did  not  touch  her,  or  the  chair  from  which  she  had 
risen,  but  sat  himself  near  the  harp.  She  stood  beside  it  for 
some  little  while,  in  a  curious  way,  going  through  the  motion 
of  playing  with  her  right  hand,  but  not  sounding  it.  At  length 
she  sat  down,  and  drew  it  to  her  with  one  sudden  action, 
and  played  and  sang. 

I  don't  know  what  it  was,  in  her  touch  or  voice,  that  made 
that  song  the  most  unearthly  I  have  ever  heard  in  my  life, 
or  can  imagine.  There  was  something  fearful  in  the  reality 
of  it.     It  was  as  if  it  had  never   been  written^  or  set  to 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  431 

music,  but  sprung  out  of  the  passion  within  her;  which 
found  imperfect  utterance  in  the  low  sounds  of  her  voice, 
and  crouched  again  when  all  was  still.  I  was  dumb  when 
she  leaned  beside  the  harp  again,  playing  it,  but  not  sound- 
ing it,  with  her  right  hand. 

A  minute  more,  and  this  had  roused  me  from  my  trance: 
Steerforth  had  left  his  seat,  and  gone  to  her,  and  had  put 
his  arm  laughingly  about  her,  and  had  said,  "  Come,  Rosa, 
for  the  future  we  will  love  each  other  very  much!"  And  she 
had  struck  him,  and  had  thrown  him  off  with  the  fury  of  a 
wild  cat,  and  had  burst  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Rosa?"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth, 
coming  in. 

"  She  has  been  an  angel,  mother,"  returned  Steerforth, 
"for  a  little  while;  and  has  run  into  the  opposite  extreme, 
since,  by  way  of  compensation." 

"  You  should  be  careful  not  to  irritate  her,  James.  Her 
temper  has  been  soured,  remember,  and  ought  not  to  be 
tried." 

Rosa  did  not  come  back;  and  no  other  mention  was  made 
of  her,  until  I  went  with  Steerforth  into  his  room  to  say 
good  night.  Then  he  laughed  about  her,  and  asked  me  if 
I  had  ever  seen  such  a  fierce  little  piece  of  incomprehen- 
sibility. 

I  expressed  as  much  of  my  astonishment  as  was  then 
capable  of  expression,  and  asked  if  he  could  guess  what  it 
was  that  she  had  taken  so  much  amiss,  so  suddenly. 

**0h.  Heaven  knows,"  said  Steerforth.  "Anything  you 
like — or  nothing!  I  told  you  she  took  everything,  herself 
included,  to  a  grindstone,  and  sharpened  it.  She  is  an  edge- 
tool,  and  requires  great  care  in  dealing  with.  She  is  always 
dangerous.     Good  night!" 

"Good  night!"  said  I,  "my  dear  Steerforth!  I  shall  be 
gone  before  you  wake  in  the  morning.     Good  night !" 

He  was  unwilling  to  let  me  go;  and  stood,  holding  me  out, 
with  a  hand  on  each  of  my  shoulders,  as  he  had  done  in  my 
own  room. 

"  Daisy,"  he  said,  with  a  smile — "  for  though  that's  not  the 
name  your  Godfathers  and  Godmothers  gave  you,  it's  the 
name  I  like  best  to  call  you  by — and  I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish, 
you  could  give  it  to  me  !" 

"  Why  so  I  can,  if  I  choose,"  said  I. 

^'  Daisy,  if  anything  should  ever  separate  us,  you  must 


432  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

think  of  me  at  my  best,  old  boy.  Come!  Let  us  make  fhat 
bargain.  Think  of  me  at  my  best,  if  circumstances  should 
ever  part  us  !" 

"  You  have  no  best  to  me,  Steerforth,"  said  I,  "  and  no  worst. 
You  are  always  equally  loved   and  cherished  in  my  heart." 

So  much  compunction  for  having  ever  wronged  him  even 
by  a  shapeless  thought,  did  I  feel  within  me,  that  the  confes- 
sion of  having  done  so  was  rising  to  my  lips.  But  for  the 
reluctance  I  had  to  betray  the  confidence  of  Agnes,  but  for 
my  uncertainty  how  to  approach  the  subject  with  no  risk  of 
doing  so,  it  would  have  reached  them  before  he  said  "  God 
bless  you,  Daisy,  and  good  night !"  In  my  doubt,  it  did  not 
reach  them;  and  we  shook  hands,  and  we  parted. 

I  was  up  with  the  dull  dawn,  and,  having  dressed  as 
quietly  as  I  could,  looked  into  his  room.  He  was  fast  asleep; 
lying  easily  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  as  I  had  often  seen 
him  lie  at  school. 

The  time  came  in  its  season,  and  that  was  very  soon,  when 
I  almost  wondered  that  nothing  troubled  his  repose,  as  I 
looked  at  him.  But  he  slept— let  me  think  of  him  so  again 
—as  I  had  often  seen  him  sleep  at  school;  and  thus,  in  this 
silent  hour,  I  left  him. 

— Never  more,  oh  God  forgive  you,  Steerforth  !  to  touch 
that  passive  hand  in  love  and  friendship.     Never,  never  morel 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  433 

CHAPTER  XXX, 

A  LOSS. 

I  GOT  down  to  Yarmouth  in  the  evening,  and  went  to  the 
inn.  I  knew  that  Peggotty's  spare  room — my  room — was 
Ukely  to  have  occupation  enough  in  a  little  while,  if  that 
greater  Visitor,  before  whose  presence  all  the  living  must  give 
place,  were  not  already  in  the  house;  so  I  betook  myself  to 
the  inn,  and  dined  there,  and  engaged  my  bed. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  went  out.  Many  of  the  shops 
were  shut,  and  the  town  was  dull.  When  I  came  to  Omer 
and  Joram's,  I  found  the  shutters  up,  but  the  shop  door 
standing  open.  As  I  could  obtain  a  perspective  view  of  Mr. 
Omer  inside,  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  parlor-door,  I  entered, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was. 

"  Why,  bless  my  life  and  soul !"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  how  do 
you  find  yourself  ?  Take  a  seat — Smoke  not  disagreeable,  I 
hope  ?'* 

"  By  no  means,"  said  I.  "  I  like  it — in  somebody  else's 
pipe." 

"  What,  not  in  your  own,  eh  ?"  Mr.  Omer  returned,  laugh- 
ing. "  All  the  better,  sir.  Bad  habit  for  a  young  man.  Take 
a  seat.     I  smoke,  myself,  for  the  asthma." 

Mr.  Omer  had  made  room  for  me,  and  placed  a  chair. 
He  now  sat  down  again,  very  much  out  of  breath,  gasping 
at  his  pipe  as  if  it  contained  a  supply  of  that  necessary,  with- 
out which  he  must  perish. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  heard  bad  news  of  Mr.  Barkis,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Omer  looked  at  me,  with  a  steady  countenance,  and 
shook  his  head.  ^ 

"  Do  you  know  how  he  is  to-night  ?"  I  asked. 

"  The  very  question  I  should  have  put  to  you,  sir,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Omer,  *'  but  on  account  of  delicacy.  It's  one  of 
the  drawbacks  of  our  line  of  business.  When  a  party's  ill, 
we  can't  ask  how  the  party  is." 

The  difficulty  had  not  occurred  to  me;  though  I  had  had 
my  apprehensions  too,  when  I  went  in,  of  hearing  the  old 
tune.  On  its  being  mentioned,  I  recognized  it,  however,  and 
said  as  much. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  understand,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  nodding  his 
head. — **  We  durstn't  do  it.     Bless  you,  it  would  be  a  shock 


434 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


Hiat  the  generality  of  parties  mightn't  recover,  to  say  *  Omer 
and  Joram's  compUments,  and  how  do  you  find  yourself  this 
morning? ' — or  this  afternoon — as  it  may  be." 

Mr.  Omer  and  I  nodded  at  each  other,  and  Mr.  Omer  re- 
cruited his  wind  by  the  aid  of  his  pipe. 

''It's  one  of  the  things  that  cut  the  trade  off  from  attentions 
they  could  often  wish  to  show,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Take  my- 
self.— If  I  have  known  Barkis  a  year,  to  move  to  as  he  went 
by,  I  have  known  him  forty  year.  But  /  can't  go  and  say 
'  How  is  he  ?'  " 

I  felt  it  was  rather  hard  on  Mr.  Omer,  and  I  told  him  so. 

"  I'm  not  more  self-interested,  I  hope,  than  another  man," 
said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Look  at  me  !  My  wind  may  fail  me  at 
any  moment,  and  it  ain't  likely  that,  to  my  own  knowledge, 
I'd  be  self-interested  under  such  circumstances.  I  say  it 
ain't  likely,  in  a  man  who  knows  his  wind  will  go,  when  it 
does  go,  as  if  a  pair  of  bellows  was  cut  open;  and  that  man 
a  grandfather,"  said  Mr.  Omer. 

I  said  "  Not  at  all." 

"  It  ain't  that  I  complain  of  my  line  of  business,"  said  Mr. 
Omer.  "  It  ain't  that.  Some  good  and  some  bad  goes,  no 
doubt,  to  all  callings.  What  I  wish  is,  that  parties  were 
brought  up  stronger-minded." 

Mr.  Omer,  with  a  very  complacent  and  amiable  face,  took 
several  puffs  in  silence;  and  then  said,  resuming  his  first 
point. 

"  Accordingly  we're  obleeged,  in  ascertaining  how  Barkis 
goes  on,  to  limit  ourselves  to  Em'ly.  She  knows  what  our 
real  objects  are,  and  she  don't  have  any  more  alarms  or  sus- 
picions about  us,  than  if  we  were  so  many  lambs.  Minnie 
and  Joram  have  just  stepped  down  to  the  house,  in  fact 
(she's  there,  after  hours,  helping  her  aunt  a  bit),  to  ask  her 
how  he  is  to  night;  and  if  you  was  to  please  to  wait  till  they 
come  back,  they'd  give  you  full  partic'lers.  Will  you  take 
something?  A  glass  of  srub  and  water,  now  ?  I  smoke  on 
srub  and  water,  myself,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  up  his  glass, 
"  because  it's  considered  softening  to  the  passages,  by  which 
this  troublesome  breath  of  mine  gets  into  action.  But,  Lord 
bless  you,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  huskily,  "  it  ain't  the  passages 
that's  out  of  order !  *  Give  me  breath  enough,'  said  I  to  my 
daughter  Minnie,  *and  /'ll  find  passages,  my  dear.'  " 

He  really  had  no  breath  to  spare,  and  it  was  very  alarming 
to  see  him  laugh.     When  he  was  again  in  a  condition  to  be 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.    »  435 

•uilked  to,  I  thanked  him  for  the  proffered  refreshment, 
which  I  decHned,  as  I  had  just  had  dinner;  and,  observing 
that  I  would  wait,  since  he  was  so  good  as  to  invite  me,  until 
his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law  came  back,  I  inquired  how 
little  Em  ly  was  ? 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  removing  his  pipe,  that  he 
might  rub  his  chin;  '*  I  tell  you  truly,  I  shall  be  glad  when 
her  marriage  has  taken  place." 

"Why  so  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  she's  unsettled  at  present,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  It 
ain't  that  she's  not  as  pretty  as  ever,  for  she's  prettier — I  do 
assure  you  she  is  prettier.  It  ain't  that  she  don't  work  as 
well  as  ever,  for  she  does.  She  wa^  worth  any  six,  and  she 
t's  worth  any  six.  But  somehow  she  wants  heart.  If  you 
understand,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  after  rubbing  his  chin  again, 
and  smoking  a  little,  "  what  I  mean  in  a  general  way  by  the 
expression,  '  A  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  alto- 
gether, my  hearties,  hurrah  !'  I  should  say  to  you,  that 
f/iaf  was — in  a  general  way — what  I  miss  in  Em'ly." 

Mr.  Omer's  face  and  manner  went  for  so  much,  that  I 
could  conscientiously  nod  my  head,  as  divining  his  meaning. 
My  quickness  of  apprehension  seemed  to  please  him,  and  he 
went  on. 

"  Now,  I  consider  this  is  principally  on  account  of  her  be- 
ing in  an  unsettled  state,  you  see.  We  have  talked  it  over  a 
great  deal,  her  uncle  and  myself,  and  her  sweetheart  and  my- 
self, after  business,  and  I  consider  it  principally  on  account  of 
her  being  unsettled.  You  must  always  recollect  of  Em'ly," 
said  Mr.  Omer,  shaking  his  head  gently,  "  that  she's  a  most  ex- 
traordinary affectionate  little  thing.  The  proverb  says,  '  You 
can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.'  Well,  I  don't 
know  about  that.  I  rather  think  you  may,  if  you  begin  early 
in  life.  She  has  made  a  home  out  of  that  old  boat,  sir,  that 
stone  and  marble  couldn't  beat." 

"  I  am  sure  she  has  !"  said  I. 

*'  To  see  the  clinging  of  that  pretty  little  thing  to  her 
uncle,"  said  Mr.  Omer;  "  to  see  the  way  she  holds  on  to 
him,  tighter  and  tighter,  and  closer  and  closer,  every  day,  is 
to  see  a  sight.  Now,  you  know,  there's  a  struggle  going  on 
when  that's  the  case.  Why  should  it  be  made  a  longer  one 
than  is  needful  ?" 

I  listened  attentively  to  the  good  old  fellow,  and  ac- 
quiesced, with  all  my  heart,  in  what  he  said. 


43^ 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


"  Therefore,  I  mentioned  to  them,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  in  a 
comfortable,  easy-going  tone,  "  this.  I  said.  'Now,  don't  con- 
sider Em'ly  nailed  down  in  point  of  time,  at  all.  Make  it  your 
own  time.  Her  services  have  been  more  valuable  than  was 
supposed;  her  learning  has  been  quicker  than  was  supposed; 
Omer  and  Joram  can  run  their  pen  through  what  remains; 
and  she's  free  when  you  wish.  If  she  likes  to  make  any 
little  arrangement,  afterwards,  in  the  way  of  doing  any  little 
thing  for  us  at  home,  very  well.  If  she  don't,  very  well  still. 
We're  no  losers,  anyhow.'  For — don't  you  see,"  said  Mr. 
Omer,  touching  me  with  his  pipe,  "  it  ain't  likely  that  a  man 
so  short  of  breath  as  myself,  and  a  grandfather  too,  would 
go  and  strain  points  with  a  little  bit  of  a  blue-eyed  blossom, 
like  her  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  I  am  certain,"  said  I. 

"  Not  at  all !  You're  right !"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Well, 
sir,  her  cousin — you  know  it's  a  cousin  she's  going  to  be 
married  to  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  replied.     "  I  know  him  well." 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Well  sir  !  Her 
cousin  being,  as  it  appears,  in  good  work,  and  well  to  do, 
thanked  me  in  a  very  manly  sort  of  manner  for  this  (con- 
ducting himself  altogether,  I  must  say,  in  a  way  that  gives 
me  a  high  opinion  of  him),  and  went  and  took  as  comfort- 
able a  little  house  as  you  or  I  could  wish  to  clap  eyes  on. 
That  little  house  is  now  furnished,  right  through,  as  neat 
and  complete  as  a  doll's  parlor;  and  but  for  Barkis's  illness 
having  taken  this  bad  turn,  poor  fellow,  they  would  have 
been  man  and  wife — I  dare  say,  by  this  time.  As  it  is, 
there's  a  postponement." 

"  And  Em'ly,  Mr.  Omer  ?"  I  inquired.  "  Has  she  become 
more  settled?" 

"  Why  that,  you  know,"  he  returned,  rubbing  his  double 
chin  again,  "  can't  naturally  be  expected.  The  prospect  of 
the  change  and  separation,  and  all  that,  is,  as  one  may  say, 
close  to  her  and  far  away  from  her,  both  at  once.  Barkis's 
death  needn't  put  it  off  much,  but  his  lingering  might. 
Anyway,  it's  an  uncertain  state  of  matters,  you  see." 

"  I  see,"  said  I. 

"  Consequently-,"  pursued  Mr.  Omer,  "  Em'ly's  still  a 
little  down,  and  a  little  fluttered;  perhaps,  upon  the  whole, 
she's  more  so  than  she  was.  Every  day  she  seems  to  get 
fonder  and  fonder  of  her  uncle,  and  more  loth  to  part  from 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  437 

all  of  us.  A  kind  word  from  me  brings  the  tears  into  hei 
eyes;  and  if  you  was  to  see  her  with  my  daughter  Minnie's 
little  girl,  you'd  never  forget  it.  Bless  my  heart  alive  !" 
said  Mr.  Omer,  pondering,  "  how  she  loves  that  child  !" 

Having  so  favorable  an  opportunity,  it  occurred  to  me  to 
ask  Mr.  Omer,  before  our  conversation  should  be  interrupted 
by  the  return  of  his  daughter  and  her  husband,  whether  he 
knew  anything  of  Martha. 

"  Ah  !"  he  rejoined,  shaking  his  head,  and  looking  very 
much  dejected.  "  No  good.  A  sad  story,  sir,  however 
you  come  to  know  it.  I  never  thought  there  was  harm  in 
the  girl.  I  wouldn't  wish  to  mention  it  before  my  daughter 
Minnie — for  she'd  take  me  up  directly — but  I  never  did. 
None  of  us  ever  did." 

Mr.  Omer  hearing  his  daughter's  footstep  before  I  heard 
it,  touched  me  with  his  pipe,  and  shut  up  one  eye,  as  a  cau- 
tion.    She  and  her  husband  came  in  immediately  afterwards. 

Their  report  was,  that  Mr.  Barkis  was  "  as  bad  as  bad 
could  be;"  that  he  was  quite  unconscious;  and  that  Mr. 
Chillip  had  mournfully  said  in  the  kitchen,  on  going  away 
just  now,  that  the  College  of  Physicians,  the  College  of  Sur- 
geons,  and  Apothecaries'  Hall,  if  they  were  all  called  in  to- 
gether, couldn't  help  him.  He  was  past  both  Colleges,  Mr. 
Chillip  said,  and  the  Hall  could  only  poison  him. 

Hearing  this,  and  learning  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  there, 
I  determined  to  go  to  the  house  at  once.  I  bade  good  night 
to  Mr.  Omer,  and  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joram;  and  directed  my 
steps  thither,  with  a  solemn  feeling,  which  made  Mr.  Barkis 
quite  a  new  and  different  creature. 

My  low  tap  at  the  door  was  answered  by  Mr.  Peggotty. 
He  was  not  so  much  surprised  to  see  me  as  I  had  expected. 
I  remarked  this  in  Peggotty,  too,  when  she  came  down;  and 
I  have  seen  it  since;  and  I  think,  in  the  expectation  of  that 
dread  surprise,  all  other  changes  and  surprises  dwindle  into 
nothing. 

I  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Peggotty  and  passed  into  the 
kitchen,  while  he  softly  closed  the  door.  Little  Em'ly  was 
sitting  by  the  fire,  with  her  hands  before  her  face.  Ham  was 
standing  near  her. 

We  spoke  in  whispers;  listening  between  whiles,  for  any 
sound  in  the  room  above.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  but  how  strange  was  it  to  me  now, 
to  miss  Mr.  Barkis  out  of  the  kitchen! 


438  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy/'  said  Mr.  Peg' 
gotty. 

"  It  is  oncommon  kind,"  said  Ham. 

"  Em'ly,  my  dear,"  cried  Mr  Peggotty.  "  See  here!  Here's 
Mas'r  Davy  come!  What,  cheer  up,  pretty!  Not  a  wured 
to  Mas'r  Davy?" 

There  was  a  trembling  upon  her,  that  I  can  see  now.  The 
coldness  of  her  hand  when  I  touched  it,  I  can  feel  yet.  Its 
only  sign  of  animation  was  to  shrink  from  mine;*  and  then 
she  glided  from  the  chair,  and,  creeping  to  the  other  side  of 
her  uncle,  bowed  herself,  silently  and  trembling  still,  upon 
his  breast. 

"  It's  such  a  loving  art,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  smoothing  her 
rich  hair  with  his  great  hard  hand,  *'that  it  can't  abear  the 
sorrer  of  this.  It's  nat'ral  in  young  folk,  Mas'r  Davy,  when 
•they're  new  to  these  here  trials,  and  timid,  like  my  little 
bird, — it's  nat'ral." 

She  clung  the  closer  to  him,  but  neither  lifted  up  her  face, 
nor  spoke  a  word. 

'.'It's  getting  late,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '*and 
here's  Ham  come  fur  to  take  you  home.  Theer!  Go  along 
with  t'other  loving  art!     What,    Em'ly?     Eh,  my  pretty?" 

The  sound  of  her  voice  had  not  reached  me,  but  he  bent 
his  head  as  if  he  listened  to  her,  and  then  said: 

"  Let  you  stay  with  your  uncle?  Why,  you  doen't  mean 
to  ask  me  that!  Stay  with  your  uncle.  Moppet?  When 
your  husband  that'll  be  so  soon,  is  here  fur  to  take  you 
home?  Now  a  person  wouldn't  think  it,  fur  to  see  this  little 
thing  alongside  a  rough-weather  chap  like  me,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  looking  round  at  both  of  us,  with  infinite  pride; 
"but  the  sea  ain't  more  salt  in  it  than  she  has  fondness  in 
her  for  her  uncle — a  foolish  little  Em'ly!" 

"Em'ly's  in  the  right  in  that,  Mas'r  Davy!"  said  Ham. 
"  Lookee  here!  As  Em'ly  wishes  of  it,  and  as  she's  hurried 
and  frightened  like,  besides,  I'll  leave  her  till  morning.  Let 
me  stay  too!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "You  doen't  ought — a 
married  man  like  you — or  what's  as  good — to  take  and  hull 
away  a  day's  work.  And  you  doen't  ought  to  watch  and 
work  both.  That  won't  do.  You  go  home  and  turn  in. 
You  ain't  afeerd  of  Em'ly  not  being  took  good  care  on,  / 
know." 

Ham  yielded  to  this  persuasion,  and  took  his  hat  to  go. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  439 

Even  when  he  kissed  her, — and  I  never  saw  him  approach 
her,  but  I  felt  that  nature  had  given  him  the  soul  of  a  gen- 
tleman,— she  seemed  to  cling  closer  to  her  uncle,  even  to 
the  avoidance  of  her  chosen  husband,  I  shut  the  door  after 
him,  that  it  might  cause  no  disturbance  of  the  quiet  that 
prevailed;  and  when  I  turned  back,  I  found  Mr.  Peggotty 
still  talking  to  her. 

"  Now,  I'm  a  going  up-stairs  to  tell  your  aunt  as  Mas'r 
Davy's  here,  and  that'll  cheer  her  up  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  Sit 
ye  down  by  the  fire,  the  while,  my  dear,  and  warm  these 
mortal  cold  hands.  You  don't  need  to  be  so  fearsome,  and 
take  on  so  much.  What?  You'll  go  along  with  me? — Well! 
come  along  with  me — come!  If  her  uncle  was  turned  out 
of  house  and  home,  and  forced  to  lay  down  in  the  dyke, 
Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  no  less  pride  than  be- 
fore, "  it's  my  belief  she'd  go  along  with  him,  now!  But 
there'll  be  some  one  else,  soon, — some  one  else,  soon, 
Em'ly!" 

Afterwards,  when  I  went  up-stairs,  as  I  passed  the  door 
of  my  little  chamber,  which  was  dark,  I  had  an  indistinct 
impression  of  her  being  within  it,  cast  down  upon  the  floor. 
But,  whether  it  was  really  she,  or  whether  it  was  a  confusion 
of  the  shadows  in  the  room,  I  don't  know  now. 

I  had  leisure  to  think,  before  the  kitchen  fire,  of  pretty 
little  Em'ly's  dread  of  death — which,  added  to  what  Mr. 
Omer  had  told  me,  I  took  to  be  the  cause  of  her  being  so 
unlike  herself — and  I  had  leisure,  before  Peggotty  came 
down,  even  to  think  more  leniently  of  the  weakness  of  it: 
as  I  sat  counting  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  deepening  my 
sense  of  the  solemn  hush  around  me.  Peggotty  took  me  in 
her  arms,  and  blessed  and  thanked  me  over  and  over  again 
for  being  such  a  comfort  to  her  (that  was  what  she  said)  in 
her  distress.  She  then  entreated  me  to  come  up-stairs,  sob- 
bing that  Mr.  Barkis  had  always  liked  me  and  admired  me; 
that  he  had  often  talked  of  me,  before  he  fell  into  a  stupor; 
and  that  she  believed,  in  case  of  his  coming  to  himself 
again,  he  would  brighten  up  at  sight  of  me,  if  he  could 
brighten  up  at  any  earthly  thing. 

The  probability  of  his  ever  doing  so  appeared  to  me,  when 
I  saw  him,  to  be  very  small.  He  was  lying  with  his  head 
and  shoulders  out  of  bed,  in  an  uncomfortable  attitude,  half 
resting  on  the  box  which  had  cost  him  so  much  pain  and 
trouble.     I  learned,  that,  when  he  was  past  creeping  out  of 


440 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


bed  to  open  it,  and  past  assuring  himself  of  its  safety  by 
means  of  the  divining  rod  I  had  seen  him  use,  he  had  required 
to  have  it  placed  on  the  chair  at  the  bed-side,  where  he  had 
ever  since  embraced  it,  night  and  day.  His  arm  lay  on  it 
now.  Time  and  the  world  were  slipping  from  beneath  him, 
but  the  box  was  there;  and  the  last  words  he  had  uttered 
were  (in  an  explanatory  tone)  '^  Old  clothes  !" 

"  Barkis,  my  dear !"  said  Peggotty,  almost  cheerfully: 
bending  over  him,  while  her  brother  and  I  stood  at  the  bed's 
foot.  "  Here's  my  dear  boy — my  dear  boy,  Master  Davy, 
who  brought  us  together,  Barkis  ?  That  you  sent  messages 
by,  you  know  !     Won't  you  speak  to  Master  Davy  ?" 

He  was  as  mute  and  senseless  as  the  box,  from  which  his 
form  derived  the  only  expression  it  had. 

"  He's  agoing  out  with  the  tide,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to 
me,  behind  his  hand. 

My  eyes  were  dim,  and  so  were  Mr.  Peggotty's;  but  I  re- 
peated in  a  whisper  "  With  the  tide  ?" 

"  People  can't  die,  along  the  coast,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"  except  when  the  tide's  pretty  nigh  out.  They  can't  be 
born,  unless  it's  pretty  nigh  in — not  properly  born,  till  flood. 
He's  agoing  out  with  the  tide.  It's  ebb  at  half  arter  three, 
slack  water  half-an-hour.  If  he  lives  till  it  turns,  he'll  hold 
his  own  till  past  the  flood,  and  go  out  with  the  next  tide." 

We  remained  there,  watching  him,  a  long  time — hours. 
What  mysterious  influence  my  presence  had  upon  him  in 
that  state  of  his  senses,  I  shall  not  pretend  to  say;  but  when 
he  at  last  began  to  wander  feebly,  it  is  certain  he  was  mut- 
tering about  driving  me  to  school. 

"  He's  coming  to  himself,"  said  Peggotty. 

Mr.  Peggotty  touched  me,  and  whispered  with  much  awe 
and  reverence,  "  They  are  both  agoing  out  fast." 

"Barkis,  my  dear  !"  said  Peggotty. 

"C.  P.  Barkis,"  he  cried  faintly.  "No  better  woman 
anywhere  !" 

"  Look  !  Here's  Master  Davy  !"  said  Peggotty.  For  he 
now  opened  his  eyes. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  if  he  knew  me,  when  he 
tried  to  stretch  out  his  arm,  and  said  to  me,  distinctly,  with 
a  pleasant  smile: 

"  Barkis  is  willin'  !" 

And,  it  being  low  water,  he  went  out  with  the  tide. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ^^j 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A    GREATER    LOSS. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  me,  on  Peggotty's  solicitation,  to 
resolve  to  stay  where  I  was,  until  after  the  remains  of  the 
poor  carrier  should  have  made  their  last  journey  to  Blun- 
derstone.  She  had  long  ago  bought,  out  of  her  own  sav- 
ings, a  little  piece  of  ground  in  our  old  churchyard  near  the 
grave  "  of  her  sweet  girl,"  as  she  always  called  my  mother; 
and  there  they  were  to  rest. 

In  keeping  Peggotty  company,  and  doing  all  I  could  for 
her  (little  enough  at  the  utmost),  I  was  as  grateful,  I  rejoice 
to  think,  as  even  now  I  could  wish  myself  to  have  been. 
But  I  am  afraid  I  had  a  supreme  satisfaction,  of  a  personal 
and  professional  nature,  in  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Barkis's  will, 
and  expounding  its  contents. 

I  may  claim  the  merit  of  having  originated  the  sugges- 
tion that  the  will  should  be  looked  for  in  the  box.  After 
some  search,  it  was  found  in  the  box,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
horse's  nose-bag:  wherein  (besides  hay)  there  was  discovered 
an  old  gold  watch,  with  chain  and  seals,  which  Mr.  Barkis 
had  worn  on  his  wedding-day,  and  which  had  never  been 
seen  before  or  since;  a  silver  tobacco-stopper,  in  the  form 
of  a  leg;  an  imitation  lemon,  full  of  minute  cups  and  sau- 
cers, which  I  had  some  idea  that  Mr.  Barkis  must  have  pur- 
chased to  present  to  me  when  I  was  a  child,  and  afterwards 
found  himself  unable  to  part  with;  eighty-seven  guineas  and 
a  half,  in  guineas  and  half  guineas;  two  hundred  and  ten 
pounds,  in  perfectly  clean  Bank  notes;  certain  receipts 
for  Bank  of  England  stock;  an  old  horse-shoe,  a  bad  shil- 
ling, a  piece  of  camphor,  and  an  oyster-shell.  From  the  cir- 
cumstance of  the  latter  article  having  been  much  polished, 
and  displaying  prismatic  colors  on  the  inside,  I  concluded 
that  Mr.  Barkis  had  some  general  ideas  about  pearls,  which 
never  resolved  themselves  into  anything  definite. 

For  years  and  years,  Mr.  Barkis  had  carried  this  box,  on 
all  his  journeys,  every  day.  That  it  might  better  escape 
notice,  he  had  invented  a  fiction  that  it  belonged  to  **  Mr. 
Blackboy,"  and  was  "  to  be  left  with  Barkis  till  called  for," 
a  fable  he  had  elaborately  written  on  the  lid,  in  characters 
now  scarcely  legible. 


442  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

He  had  hoarded,  all  these  years,  I  found  to  good  purpose. 
His  property  in  money  amounted  to  nearly  three  thousand 
pounds.  Of  this  he  bequeathed  the  interest  of  one  thou- 
sand to  Mr.  Peggotty  for  his  life;  on  his  decease,  the  prin- 
cipal to  be  equally  divided  between  Peggotty,  little  Em'ly, 
and  me,  or  the  survivor  or  survivors  of  us,  share  and  share 
alike.  All  the  rest  he  died  possessed  of,  he  bequeathed  to 
Peggotty;  whom  he  left  residuary  legatee,  and  sole  executrix 
of  his  last  will  and  testament. 

I  felt  myself  quite  a  proctor  when  I  read  this  document 
aloud  with  all  possible  ceremony,  and  set  forth  its  provis- 
ions, any  number  of  times,  to  those  whom  they  concerned. 
I  began  to  think  that  there  was  more  in  the  Commons  than 
I  had  supposed.  I  examined  the  will  with  the  deepest  at- 
tention, pronounced  it  perfectly  formal  in  all  respects, 
made  a  pencil-mark  or  so  on  the  margin,  and  thought  it 
rather  extraordinary  that  I  knew  so  much. 

In  this  abstruse  pursuit;  in  making  an  account  for  Peggotty 
of  all  the  property  into  which  she  had  come;  in  arranging 
all  the  affairs  in  an  orderly  manner;  and  in  being  her  referee 
and  adviser  on  every  point,  to  our  joint  delight;  I  passed 
the  week  before  the  funeral.  I  did  not  see  little  Em'ly  in 
that  interval,  but  they  told  me  she  was  to  be  quietly  married 
in  a  fortnight. 

I  did  not  attend  the  funeral  in  character,  if  I  may 
venture  to  say  so.  I  mean  I  was  not  dressed  up  in  a  black 
cloak  and  a  streamer,  to  frighten  the  birds  ;  but  I  walked 
over  to  Blunderstone  early  in  the  morning,  and  was  in  the 
churchyard  when  it  came,  attended  only  by  Peggotty  and 
her  brother.  The  mad  gentleman  looked  on,  out  of  my  little 
window;  Mr.  Chillip's  baby  wagged  its  heavy  head,  and 
rolled  its  goggle  eyes,  at  the  clergyman,  over  its  nurse's 
shoulder;  Mr.  Omer  breathed  short  in  the  background;  no 
one  else  was  there;  and  it  was  very  quiet.  We  walked  about 
the  churchyard  for  an  hour,  after  all  was  over;  and  pulled 
some  young  leaves  from  the  tree  above  my  mother's  grave. 

A  dread  falls  on  me  here.  A  cloud  is  lowering  on  the 
distant  town,  towards  which  I  retraced  my  solitary  steps. 
I  fear  to  approach  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  think  what  did 
come,  upon  that  memorable  night;  of  what  must  come 
again,  if  I  go  on. 

It  is  no  worse,  because  I  write  of  it.  It  would  be  no 
better,  if  I  stopped  my  most  unwiUing  hand.     It  is  done. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


443 


Nothing  can  undo  it;  nothing  can  make  it  otherwise  than 
as  it  was. 

My  old  nurse  was  to  go  to  London  with  me  next  day,  on 
the  business  of  the  will.  Little  Em'ly  was  passing  that  day 
at  Mr.  Omer's.  We  were  all  to  meet  in  the  old  boat  house 
that  night.  Ham  would  bring  Em'ly  at  the  usual  hour.  I 
would  walk  back  at  my  leisure.  The  brother  and  sister 
would  return  as  they  had  come,  and  be  expecting  us,  when 
the  day  closed  in,  at  the  fireside. 

I  parted  from  them  at  the  wicket-gate,  where  visionary 
Straps  had  rested  with  Roderick  Random's  knapsack  in 
the  days  of  yore ;and,  instead  of  going  straight  back,  walked 
a  little  distance  on  the  road  to  Lowestoft.  Then  I  turn- 
ed, and  walked  back  towards  Yarmouth.  I  stayed  to  dine 
at  a  decent  alehouse,  some  mile  or  two  from  the  Ferry  I 
have  mentioned  before;  and  thus  the  day  wore  away,  and 
it  was  evening  when  I  reached  it.  Rain  was  falling  heavily 
by  that  time,  and  it  was  a  wild  night;  but  there  was  a  moon 
behind  the  clouds,  and  it  was  not  dark. 

I  was  soon  within  sight  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  house,  and  of 
the  light  within  it  shining  through  the  window.  A  little  floun- 
dering across  the  sand,  which  was  heavy,  brought  me  to  the 
door,  and  I  went  in. 

It  looked  very  comfortable  indeed.  Mr.  Peggotty  had 
smoked  his  evening  pipe,  and  there  were  preparations  for 
some  supper  by-and-by.  The  fire  was  bright,  the  ashes  were 
thrown  up,  the  locker  was  ready  for  little  Em'ly  in  her  old 
place.  In  her  own  old  place  sat  Peggotty,  once  more,  look- 
ing (but  for  her  dress)  as  if  she  had  never  left  it.  She  had 
fallen  back  already  on  the  society  of  the  work-box  with  Saint 
Paul's  upon  the  lid,  the  yard-measure  in  the  cottage,  and  the 
bit  of  wax-candle:  and  there  they  all  were,  just  as  if  they 
had  never  been  disturbed.  Mrs.  Gummidge  appeared  to  be 
fretting  a  little,  in  her  old  corner;  and  consequently  looked 
quite  natural,  too. 

"You're  first  of  the  lot,  Mas'r  Davy!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  a  happy  face.  "  Doen't  keep  in  that  coat,  sir,  if  it's 
wet." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said  I,  giving  him  my  outer 
coat  to  hang  up.     "  It's  quite  dry." 

"  So  'tis!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  feeling  my  shoulders.  "  As 
a  chip.  Sit  ye  down,  sir.  It  ain't  o'  no  use  saying  welcome 
to  you,  but  you're  welcome,  kind  and  hearty." 


444  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Well,  Peg- 
gotty!"  said  I,  giving  her  a  kiss.  "  And  how  are  you,  old 
woman?" 

"  Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  sitting  down  beside  us, 
and  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  sense  of  relief  from  recent 
trouble,  and  in  the  genuine  heartiness  of  his  nature; 
"  there's  not  a  woman  in  the  wureld,  sir — as  I  tell  her — 
that  need  to  feel  more  easy  in  her  mind  than  her!  She 
done  her  dooty  by  the  departed,  and  the  departed  know'd 
it;  and  the  departed  done  what  was  right  by  her,  as  she 
done  what  was  right  by  the  departed;  and — and — and  it's 
all  right!" 

Mrs.  Gummidge  groaned. 

"Cheer  up,  my  pretty  mawther!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
(But  he  shook  his  head  aside  at  us,  evidently  sensible  of 
the  tendency  of  the  late  occurrences  to  recall  the  mem- 
ory of  the  old  one.)  "  Doen't  be  down!  Cheer  up,  for 
your  own  self,  on'y  a  little  bit,  and  see  if  a  good  deal  more 
doen't  come  nat'ral!" 

"  Not  to  me,  Dan'l,"  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  Noth- 
ink's  nat'ral  to  me,  but  to  be  lone  and  lorn." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  soothing  her  sorrows. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Dan'l!"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  *'  I  ain't  a  per- 
son to  live  with  them  as  has  had  money  left.  Thinks  go  too 
contrairy  with  me.     I  had  better  be  a  riddance." 

"  Why,  how  should  I  ever  spend  it  without  you?"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  with  an  air  of  serious  remonstrance.  *'  What  are 
you  a  talking  on  ?  Doen't  I  want  you  more  now,  than  ever 
I  did?" 

"I  know'd  I  was  never  wanted  before!"  cried  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge, with  a  pitiable  whimper,  "  and  now  I'm  told  so!  How 
could  I  expect  to  be  wanted,  being  so  lone  and  lorn,  and  so 
contrairy!" 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  very  much  shocked  at  himself  for 
having  made  a  speech  capable  of  this  unfeeling  construc- 
tion, but  was  prevented  from  replying,  by  Peggotty's  pulling 
his  sleeve,  and  shaking  her  head.  After  looking  at  Mrs. 
Gummidge  for  some  moments,  in  sore  distress  of  mind,  he 
glanced  at  the  Dutch  clock,  rose,  snuffed  the  candle,  and 
put  it  in  the  window. 

"  Theer!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  cheerily,  "  Theer  we  are. 
Missis  Gummidge!"  Mrs.  Gummidge  slightly  groaned. 
"Lighted  up,  accordin'   to  custom!     You're  a  wonderin' 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  445 

what  that's  fur,  sir!  Well,  it's  fur  our  little  Em'ly.  You 
see,  the  path  ain't  over  light  or  cheerful  arter  dark;  and 
when  I'm  here  at  the  hour  as  she's  comin'  home,  I  puts  the 
light  in  the  winder.  That,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
bending  over  me  with  great  glee,  "meets  two  objects.  She 
says,  says  Em'ly,  *  Theer's  home!'  she  says.  And  likewise, 
says  Em'ly,  *  My  uncle's  theer!'  Fur  if  I  ain't  theer,  I 
never  have  no  light  showed." 

"  You're  a  baby!"  said  Peggotty;  very  fond  of  him  for  it, 
if  she  thought  so. 

"  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  standing  with  his  legs 
pretty  wide  apart,  and  rubbing  his  hands  up  and  down  them 
in  his  comfortable  satisfaction,  as  he  looked  alternately  at 
us  and  at  the  fire,  "  I  doen't  know  but  I  am.  Not,  you  see, 
to  look  at." 

"  Not  azackly,"  observed  Peggotty. 

"  No,"  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  not  to  look  at,  but  to — to 
consider  on,  you  know.  /  doen't  care,  bless  you!  Now  I 
tell  you.  When  I  go  a  looking  and  looking  about  that  theer 
pritty  house  of  our  Em'ly's,  I'm — I'm  Gormed,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  with  sudden  emphasis — "theer!  I  can't  say  more 
— if  I  doen't  feel  as  if  the  littlest  things  was  her,  a'most.  I 
takes  'em  up,  and  I  puts  'em  down,  and  I  touches  of  *em  as 
delicate  as  if  they  was  our  Em'ly.  So  'tis  with  her  little 
bonnets  and  that.  I  couldn't  see  one  on  'em  rough  used  a 
purpose — not  fur  the  wureld.  There's  a  baby  fur  you,  in 
the  form  of  a  great  Sea  Porkypine!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  re- 
lieving his  earnestness  with  a  roar  of  laughter. 

Peggotty  and  I  both  laughed,  but  not  so  loud. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  de- 
lighted face,  after  some  further  rubbing  of  his  legs,  "  as  this 
is  along  of  my  havin'  played  with  her  so  much,  and  made 
believe  as  we  wes  Turks,  and  French,  and  sharks,  and  every 
wariety  of  forinners — bless  you,  yes;  and  lions  and  whales, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all! — when  she  wan't  no  higher  up 
than  my  knee.  I've  got  into  the  way  on  it,  you  know.  Why, 
this  here  candle,  now!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  gleefully  holding 
out  his  hand  towards  it,  "  /  know  wery  well  that  arter  she's 
married  and  gone,  I  shall  put  that  candle  theer,  just  the 
same  as  now.  I  know  wery  well  that  when  I'm  here  o'  nights 
(and  where  else  should  /  live,  bless  your  arts,  whatever 
fortun'  I  come  into!)  and  she  ain't  here,  or  I  ain't  theer,  I 
shall  put  the  candle  in  the  winder,  and  sit  afore  the  fire,  pre- 


446  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

tending  I'm  expecting  of  her,  like  I'm  doing  now.  There's 
a  babby  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  another  roar,  "  in 
the  form  of  a  Sea  Porkypine!  Why,  at  the  present  minute, 
when  I  see  the  candle  sparkle  up,  I  says  to  myself,  *  She's  a 
looking  at  it!  Em'ly's  a  coming!'  There's  a  babby  for  you, 
in  the  form  of  a  Sea  Porkypine!  Right  for  all  that,"  said 
Mr.  Peggotty  stopping  in  his  roar,  and  smiting  his  hands 
together;  "  fur  here  she  is!" 

It  was  only  Ham.  The  night  should  have  turned  more 
wet  since  I  came  in,  for  he  had  a  large  sou'wester  hat  on, 
slouched  over  his  face. 

"  Where's  Em'ly  ?"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Ham  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  as  if  she  were  out- 
side. Mr.  Peggotty  took  the  light  from  the  window,  trim- 
med it,  put  it  on  the  table,  and  was  busily  stirring  the  fire, 
when  Ham,  who  had  not  moved,  said: 

"  Mas'r  Davy,  will  you  come  out  a  minute,  and  see  what 
Em'ly  and  me  has  got  to  show  you!" 

We  went  out.  As  I  passed  him  at  the  door,  I  saw,  to  my 
astonishment  and  fright,  that  he  was  deadly  pale.  He 
pushed  me  hastily  into  the  open  air,  and  closed  the  door 
upon  us.     Only  upon  us  two. 

"  Ham!  what's  the  matter!" 

'^  Mas'r  Davy!" — Oh,  for  his  broken  heart,  how  dreadfully 
he  wept! 

I  was  paralyzed  by  the  sight  of  such  grief.  I  don't  know 
what  I  thought,  or  what  I  dreaded.  I  could  only  look  at 
him. 

"  Ham  !  Poor  good  fellow  !  For  Heaven's  sake  tell  me 
what's  the  matter  !" 

"  My  love,  Mas'r  Davy — the  pride  and  hope  of  my  art — 
her  that  I'd  have  died  for,  and  would  die  for  now — she's 
gone  !" 

"Gone?" 

"  Em'ly's  run  away  I  Oh,  Mas'r  Davy,  think  hoT^  she's 
run  away,  when  I  pray  my  good  and  gracious  God  to  kill  her 
(her  that  is  so  dear  above  all  things)  sooner  than  let  her 
come  to  ruin  and  disgrace  !" 

The  face  he  turned  up  to  the  troubled  sky,  the  quivering 
of  his  clasped  hands,  the  agony  of  his  figure,  remain  associ- 
ated with  that  lonely  waste,  in  my  remembrance,  to  this 
hour  It  is  always  night  there,  and  he  is  the  only  object  ia 
the  scene. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  44^ 

"You're  a  scholar,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "and  know 
what's  right  and  best.  What  am  I  to  say,  in-doors  ?  How 
am  I  ever  to  break  it  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ?" 

I  saw  the  door  move,  and  instinctively  tried  to  hold  the 
latch  on  the  outside,  to  gain  a  moment's  time.  It  was  too 
late.  Mr.  Peggotty  thrust  forth  his  face;  and  never  could 
I  forget  the  change  that  came  upon  it  when  he  saw  us,  if  I 
were  to  live  five  hundred  years. 

I  remember  a  great  wail  and  cry,  and  the  women  hang- 
ing about  him,  and  we  all  standing  in  the  "room;  I  with  a 
paper  in  my  hand,  which  Ham  had  given  me;  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  his  vest  torn  open,  his  hair  wild,  his  face  and  lips  quite 
white,  and  blood  trickling  down  his  bosom  (it  had  sprung 
from  his  mouth,  I  think),  looking  fixedly  at  me. 

"  Read  it,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  shivering  voice.  "  Slow, 
please.     I  doen't  know  as  I  can  understand." 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  of  death,  I  read  thus,  from  a 
blotted  letter. 

"  '  When  you,  who  love  me  so  much  better  than  I  ever  have  deserved, 
even  when  my  mind  was  innocent,  see  this,  I  shall  be  far  away.'  " 

"  I  shall  be  fur  away,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "  Stop  !  Em'ly 
fur  away.     Well !" 

"  •  When  I  leave  my  dear  home — my  dear  home — oh,  my  dear  home  ! — 
in  the  morning.' 

the  letter  bore  date  on  the  previous  night: 

■"  ' — it  will  be  never  to  come  back,  unless  he  brings  me  back  a  lady. 
This  will  be  found  at  night,  many  hours  after,  instead  of  me.  Oh,  if 
you  knew  how  my  heart  is  torn.  If  even  you,  that  I  have  wronged  so 
much,  that  never  can  forgive  me,  could  only  know  what  I  suffer  !  I  am 
too  wicked  to  write  about  myself.  Oh,  take  comfort  in  thinking  that  I 
am  so  bad.  Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  tell  uncle  that  I  never  loved  him  half 
so  dear  as  now.  Oh,  don't  remember  how  affectionate  and  kind  you  have 
all  been  to  me — don't  remember  we  were  ever  to  be  married — but  try  to 
think  as  if  I  died  when  I  was  little,  and  was  buried  somewhere.  Pray 
Heaven,  that  I  am  going  away  from,  have  compassion  on  my  uncle  !  Tell 
him  that  I  never  loved  him  half  so  dear.  Be  his  comfort.  Love  some 
good  girl,  that  will  be  what  I  was  once  to  uncle,  and  be  true  to  you,  and 
worthy  of  you,  and  know  no  shame  but  me.  God  bless  all !  I'll  pray 
for  all,  often,  on  my  knees.  If  he  don't  bring  me  back  a  lady,  and  I 
don't  pray  for  my  own  self,  I'll  pray  for  all.  My  parting  love  to  uncle. 
My  last  tears,  and  my  last  thanks,  for  uncle  !" 

That  was  all. 


448  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

He  stood,  long  after  I  had  ceased  to  read,  still  looking  a^ 
me.  At  length  I  ventured  to  take  his  hand,  and  to  entreat 
him,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  endeavor  to  get  some  command 
of  himself.  He  replied,  "  I  thankee,  sir,  I  thankee  !"  with- 
out moving. 

Ham  spoke  to  him.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  far  sensible  of 
his  affliction,  that  he  wrung  his  hand;  but,  otherwise,  he  re- 
mained in  the  same  state,  and  no  one  dared  to  disturb  him. 

Slowly,  at  last,  he  moved  his  eyes  from  my  face,  as  if  he 
were  waking  from  a  vision,  and  cast  them  round  the  room. 
Then  he  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Who's  the  man  ?     I  want  to  know  his  name." 

Ham  glanced  at  me,  and  suddenly  I  felt  a  shock  that 
struck  me  back. 

"  There's  a  man  suspected,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  Who 
is  it  ?" 

"  Mas'r  Davy  !"  implored  Ham.  "  Go  out  a  bit,  and  let 
me  tell  him  what  I  must.     You  doen't  ought  to  hear  it,  sir." 

I  felt  the  shock  again.  I  sank  down  in  a  chair,  and  tried 
to  utter  some  reply;  but  my  tongue  was  fettered,  and  my 
sight  was  weak. 

"  I  want  to  know  his  name  !"     I  heard  said,  once  more. 

"  For  some  time  past,"  Ham  faltered,  "  there's  been  a  ser- 
vant about  here,  at  odd  times.  There's  been  a  gen'lm'n  too. 
Both  of  'em  belonged  to  one  another." 

Mr.  Peggotty  stood  fixed  as  before,  but  now  looking  at  him. 

"  The  servant,"  pursued  Ham,  "  was  seen  along  with — 
our  poor  girl — last  night.  He's  been  in  hiding  about  here, 
this  week  or  over.  He  was  thought  to  have  gone,  but  he 
v/as  hiding.     Doen't  stay,  Mas'r  Davy,  doen't!" 

I  felt  Peggotty's  arm  round  my  neck,  but  I  could  not 
have  moved  if  the  house  had  been  about  to  fall  upon  me. 

"A  strange  chay  and  horses  was  outside  the  town,  this 
morning,  on  the  Norwich  road,  a'most  afore  the  day  broke," 
Ham  went  on.  "  The  servant  went  to  it,  and  come  from  it, 
and  went  to  it  again.  When  he  went  to  it  again,  Em'ly  was 
nigh  him.     The  t'other  was  inside.     He's  the  man." 

"  For  the  Lord's  love,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  falling  back, 
and  putting  out  his  hand,  as  if  to  keep  off  what  he  dreaded. 
"  Doen't  tell  me  his  name's  Steerforth!" 

"Mas'r  Davy,"  exclaimed  Ham,  in  a  broken  voice,  "it 
ain't  no  fault  of  yourn — and  I  am  far  from  laying  it  to  you 
'-but  his  name  is  Steerforth,  and  he's  a  damned  villain!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  449 

Mr.  Peggotty  uttered  no  cry,  and  shed  no  tear,  and  moved 
no  more,  until  he  seemed  to  wake  again,  all  at  once,  and 
pulled  down  his  rough  coat  from  its  peg  in  a  corner. 

''  Bear  a  hand  with  this!  I'm  struck  of  a  heap,  and  can't 
do  it,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "Bear  a  hand,  and  help  me. 
Well!"  when  somebody  had  done  so.  "  Now  give  me  that 
theer  hat!" 

Ham  asked  him  whither  he  was  going. 

"  I'm  agoing  to  seek  my  niece.  I'm  agoing  to  seek  my 
Em'ly.  I'm  agoing,  first,  to  stave  in  that  theer  boat,  and 
sink  it  where  I  would  have  drownded  hiiUy  as  I'm  a  livin' 
soul,  if  I  had  had  one  thought  of  what  was  in  him!  As  he 
sat  afore  me,"  he  said,  wildly,  holding  out  his  clenched  right 
hand,  "  as  he  sat  afore  me,  face  to  face,  strike  me  down 
dead,  but  I'd  have  drownded  him,  and  thought  it  right! — 
I'm  agoing  to  seek  my  niece." 

"Where?"  cried  Ham,  interposinghimself  before  the  door. 

"Anywhere!  I'm  agoing  to  seek  my  niece  through  the 
wureld.  I'm  agoing  to  find  my  poor  niece  in  her  shame, 
and  bring  her  back.  No  one  stop  me!  I  tell  you  I'm  a- 
going  to  seek  my  niece!" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge,  coming  between  them, 
in  a  fit  of  crying.  "  No,  no,  Dan'l,  not  as  you  are  now. 
Seek  her  in  a  little  while,  my  lone  lorn  Dan'l,  and  that'll 
be  but  right;  but  not  as  you  are  now.  Sit  ye  down,  and 
give  me  your  forgiveness  for  having  ever  been  a  worrit  to 
you,  Dan'l — what  have  my  contrairies  ever  been  to  this! — 
and  let  us  speak  a  word  about  them  times  when  she  was 
first  an  orphan,  and  when  Ham  was  too,  and  when  I  was  a 
poor  widder  woman,  and  you  took  me  in.  It'll  soften  your 
poor  heart,  Dan'l,"  laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  "and 
you'll  bear  your  sorrow  better;  but  you  know  the  promise, 
Dan'l,  *As  you  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these, 
you  have  done  it  unto  me;'  and  that  can  never  fail  under 
this  roof,  that's  been  our  shelter  for  so  many,  many  year!" 

He  was  quite  passive  now;  and  when  I  heard  him  crying, 
the  impulse  that  had  been  upon  me  to  go  down  upon  my 
knees,  and  ask  their  pardon  for  the  desolation  I  had  caused, 
and  curse  Steerforth,  yielded  to  a  better  feeling.  My  over* 
charged  heart  found  the  same  relief,  and  I  cried  too. 


450  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  LONG  JOURNEY. 

What  is  natural  in  me,  is  natural  in  many  other  men,  I 
infer,  and  so  I  am  not  afraid  to  write  that  I  never  had  loved 
Steerforth  better  than  when  the  ties  that  bound  me  to  him 
were  broken.  In  the  keen  distress  of  the  discovery  of  his 
unworthiness,  I  thought  more  of  all  that  was  brilliant  in 
him,  I  softened  more  towards  all  that  was  good  in  him,  I  did 
more  justice  to  the  qualities  that  might  have  made  him  a 
man  of  a  noble  nature  and  a  great  name,  than  ever  I  had 
done  in  the  height  of  my  devotion  to  him.  Deeply  as  I  felt 
my  own  unconscious  part  in  his  pollution  of  an  honest  home, 
I  believe  that  if  I  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with  him,  I 
could  not  have  uttered  one  reproach.  I  should  have  loved 
liim  so  well  still — though  he  fascinated  me  no  longer — I 
should  have  held  in  so  much  tenderness,  the  memory  of  my 
affection  for  him,  that  I  think  I  should  have  been  as  weak 
as  a  spirit-wounded  child,  in  all  but  the  entertainment  of  a 
thought  that  we  could  ever  be  reunited.  That  thought  I 
never  had.  I  felt,  as  he  had  felt,  that  all  was  at  an  end 
between  us.  What  his  remembrances  of  me  were,  I  have 
never  known —  they  were  light  enough,  perhaps,  and  easily 
dismissed — but  mine  of  him  were  as  the  remembrances 
of  a  cherished  friend,  who  was  dead. 

Yes,  Steerforth,  long  removed  from  the  scenes  of  this  poor 
history  !  My  sorrow  may  bear  involuntary  witness  against 
you  at  the  Judgment  Throne;  but  my  angry  thoughts  or  my 
reproaches  never  will,  I  know  ! 

The  news  of  what  had  happened  soon  spread  through  the 
town;  insomuch  that  as  I  passed  along  the  streets  next  morn- 
ing, I  overheard  the  people  speak  of  it  at  their  doors.  Many 
were  hard  upon  her,  some  few  were  hard  upon  him,  but  to- 
wards her  second  father  and  her  lover  there  was  but  one 
sentiment.  Among  all  kinds  of  people  a  respect  for  them 
in  their  distress  prevailed,  which  was  full  of  gentleness  and 
delicacy.  The  seafaring  men  kept  apart,  when  those  two 
were  seen  early,  walking  with  slow  steps  on  the  beach;  and 
stood  in  knots  talking  compassionately  among  themselves. 

It  was  on  the  beach,  close  down  by  the  sea,  that  I  found 
them.     It  would  have  been  easy  to  perceive  that  they  had 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  45  s 

not  slept  all  last  night,  even  if  Peggotty  had  failed  to  tell 
me  of  their  still  sitting  just  as  I  left  them,  when  it  was 
broad  day.  They  looked  worn;  and  I  thought  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty's  head  was  bowed  in  one  night  more  than  in  all  the 
years  I  had  known  him.  But  they  were  both  as  grave  and 
steady  as  the  sea  itself:  then  lying  beneath  a  dark  sky,  wave- 
less — yet  with  a  heavy  roll  upon  it,  as  if  it  breathed  in  its 
rest — and  touched,  on  the  horizon,  with  a  strip  of  silvery 
light  from  the  unseen  sun. 

"  We  have  had  a  mort  of  talk,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to 
me,  when  we  had  all  three  walked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
"  of  what  we  ought  and  doen't  ought  to  do.  But  we  see 
our  course  now." 

I  happened  to  glance  at  Ham,  then  looking  out  to  sea  up- 
on the  distant  light,  and  a  frightful  thought  came  into  my 
mind — not  that  his  face  was  angry,  for  it  was  not;  I  recall 
nothing  but  an  expression  of  stern  determination  in  it — that 
if  ever  he  encountered  Steerforth,  he  would  kill  him. 

"  My  dooty  here,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  *'  is  done.  I'm  a- 
going  to  seek  my — "  he  stopped,  and  went  on  in  a  firmer 
voice:  *'  I'm  agoing  to  seek  her.     That's  my  dooty  evermore." 

He  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him  where  he  would 
seek  her,  and  inquired  if  I  were  going  to  London  to-morrow? 
I  told  him  I  had  not  gone  to-day,  fearing  to  lose  the  chance 
of  being  of  any  service  to  him;  but  that  I  was  ready  to  go 
when  he  would. 

"  I'll  go  along  with  you,  sir,"  he  rejoined,  "if  you're 
agreeable,  to-morrow." 

We  walked  again,  for  a  while,  in  silence. 

"  Ham,"  he  presently  resumed,  "  he'll  hold  to  his  present 
work,  and  go  and  live  along  with  my  sister.  The  old  boat 
yonder — " 

"  Will  you  desert  the  old  boat,  Mr.'  Peggotty?"  I  gently 
interposed. 

"My  station,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned,  "ain't  there  no 
longer;  and  if  ever  a  boat  foundered,  since  there  was  dark- 
ness on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  one's  gone  down.  But 
no,  sir,  no;  I  doen't  mean  as  it  should  be  deserted.  Fur 
from  that." 

We  walked  again  for  a  while,  as  before,  until  he  ex- 
plained: 

"  My  wishes  is,  sir,  as  it  shall  look,  day  and  night,  winter 


452  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

and  summer,  as  it  has  always  looked  since  she  first  know'd 
it.  If  ever  she  should  come  a  wandering  back,  I  wouldn't 
have  the  old  place  seem  to  cast  her  off,  you  understand, 
but  seem  to  tempt  her  to  draw  nigher  to't,  a-nd  to  peep  in, 
maybe,  like  a  ghost,  out  of  the  wind  and  rain,  through  the 
old  winder,  at  the  old  seat  by  the  fire.  Then,  maybe,  Mas'r 
Davy,  seein'  none  but  Missis  Gummidge  there,  she  might 
take  heart  to  creep  in,  trembling;  and  might  come  to  be  laid 
down  in  her  old  bed,  and  rest  her  weary  head  where  it  was 
once  so  gay." 

I  could  not  speak  to  him  in  reply,  though  I  tried. 

"  Every  night,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  as  reg'lar  as  the 
night  comes,  the  candle  must  be  stood  in  its  old  pane  of 
glass,  that  if  ever  she  should  see  it,  it  may  seem  to  say, 
'  Come  back,  my  child,  come  back!'  If  ever  there's  a  knock, 
Ham  (partic'ler  a  soft  knock),  arter  dark,  at  your  aunt's 
door,  doen't  you  go  nigh  it.  Let  it  be  her — not  you — that 
sees  my  fallen  child!" 

He  walked  a  little  in  front  of  us,  and  kept  before  us 
for  some  minutes.  During  this  interval,  I  glanced  at  Ham 
again,  and  pbserving  the  same  expression  on  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  still  directed  to  the  distant  light,  I  touched  his 
arm. 

Twice  I  called  him  by  his  name,  in  the  tone  in  which  I 
might  have  tried  to  rouse  a  sleeper,  before  he  heeded  me. 
When  I  at  last  inquired  on  what  his  thoughts  were  so  bent, 
he  replied: 

"  On  what's  afore  me,  Mas'r  Davy;  and  over  yon." 

"  On  the  life  before  you,  do  you  mean  ?"  He  had  pointed 
confusedly  out  to  sea. 

"  Ay,  Mas'r  Davy.  I  doen't  rightly  know  how  'tis,  but 
from  over  yon  there  seemed  to  me  to  come — the  end  of  it, 
like;"  looking  at  me  as  if  he  were  waking,  but  with  the  same 
determined  face. 

"  What  end?"  I  asked,  possessed  of  my  former  fear. 

"  I  doen't  know,"  he  said  thoughtfully;  "  I  was  calling  to 
mind  that  the  beginning  of  it  all  did  take  place  here — and 
then  the  end  come.  But  it's  gone!  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  add- 
ed; answering,  as  I  think,  my  look,  "you  hadn't  no  call  to 
be  afeerd  of  me:  but  I'm  kiender  muddled;  I  doen't  fare  to 
feel  no  matters," — which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was 
not  himself,  and  quite  confounded. 

Mr.  Peggotty  stopping  for  us  to  join  him,  we  did  so,  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  453 

said  no  more.  The  remembrance  of  this,  in  connexion  with 
my  former  thought,  however,  haunted  me  at  intervals,  even 
until  the  inexorable  end  came  at  its  appointed  time. 

We  insensibly  approached  the  old  boat,  and  entered.  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  no  longer  moping  in  her  special  corner,  was 
busy  preparing  breakfast.  She  took  Mr.  Peggotty's  hat,  and 
placed  his  seat  for  him,  and  spoke  so  comfortably  and  softly,, 
that  I  hardly  knew  her. 

"  Dan'l,  my  good  man,"  said  she,  "  you  must  eat  and 
drink,  and  keep  up  your  strength,  for  without  it  you'll  do 
nowt.  Try,  that's  a  dear  soul!  And  if  I  disturb  you  with 
my  clicketen,"  she  meant  her  chattering,  "  tell  me  so,  Dan'l, 
and  I  won't." 

When  she  had  served  us  all,  she  withdrew  to  the  window, 
where  she  sedulously  employed  herself  in  repairing  some 
shirts  and  other  clothes  belonging  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  and 
neatly  folding  and  packing  them  in  an  old  oilskin  bag,  such 
as  sailors  carry.  Meanwhile,  she  continued  talking  in  the 
same  quiet  manner. 

"All  times  and  seasons,  you  know,  Dan'l,"  said  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  *'*  I  shall  be  alius  here,  and  every  think  will  look 
accordin'  to  your  wishes.  I'm  a  poor  scholar,  but  I  shall 
write  to  you,  odd  times,  when  you're  away,  and  send  my  let- 
ters to  Mas'r  Davy.  Maybe  you'll  write  me,  too,  Dan'l,  odd 
times,  and  tell  me  how  you  fare  to  feel  upon  your  lone  lorn 
journeys." 

"  You'll  be  a  solitary  woman  here,  I'm  afeerd!"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

"  No,  no,  Dan'l,"  she  returned,  '  I  shan't  be  that.  Don't 
you  mind  me.  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  a  Beeia 
for  you  "  (Mrs.  Gummidge  meant  a  home);  "  again  you  come 
back — to  keep  a  Beein  here  for  any  that  may  hap  to  come 
back,  Dan'l.  In  the  fine  time,  I  shall  set  outside  the  door  as 
I  used  to  do.  If  any  should  come  nigh,  they  shall  see  the 
old  widder  woman  true  to  'em,  a  long  way  off." 

What  a  change  in  Mrs.  Gummidge  in  a  little  time!  She 
was  another  woman.  She  was  so  devoted,  she  had  such  a 
quick  perception  of  what  it  would  be  well  to  say,  and  what 
it  would  be  well  to  leave  unsaid,  she  was  so  forgetful  of  her- 
self, and  so  regardful  of  the  sorrow  about  her,  that  I  held  her 
in  a  sort  of  veneration.  The  work  she  did  that  day  !  There 
were  many  things  to  be  brought  up  from  the  beach  and 
stored  in  the  outhouse — as  oars,  nets,  sails,  cordage,  spars, 


454  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

lobster-pots,  bags  of  ballast,  and  the  like;  and  though  there 
was  abundance  of  assistance  rendered,  there  being  not  a  pair 
of  working  hands  on  all  that  shore  but  would  have  labored 
hard  for  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  been  well  paid  in  being  asked  to 
do  it,  yet  she  persisted,  all  day  long,  in  toiling  under  weights 
that  she  was  quite  unequal  to,  and  fagging  to  and  fro  on  all 
sorts  of  unnecessary  errands.  As  to  deploring  her  misfor- 
tunes, she  appeared  to  have  entirely  lost  the  recollection  of 
ever  having  had  any.  She  preserved  an  equable  cheerful- 
ness in  the  midst  of  her  sympathy,  which  was  not  the  least 
astonishing  part  of  the  change  that  had  come  over  her. 
Querulousness  was  out  of  the  question.  I  did  not  even  ob- 
serve her  voice  to  falter,  or  a  tear  to  escape  from  her  eyes, 
the  whole  day  through,  until  twilight;  when  she  and  I  and 
Peggotty  being  alone  together,  and  he  having  fallen  asleep 
in  perfect  exhaustion,  she  broke  into  a  half  suppressed  fit  of 
sobbing  and  crying,  and  taking  me  to  the  door,  said,  "  Ever 
bless  you,  Mas'r  Davy,  be  a  friend  to  him,  poor  dear."  Then, 
she  immediately  ran  out  of  the  house  to  wash  her  face,  in 
order  that  she  might  sit  quietly  beside  him,  and  be  found  at 
work  there,  when  he  should  awake.  In  short  I  left  her,  when 
I  went  away  at  night,  the  prop  and  staff  of  Mr.  Peggotty's 
affliction;  and  I  could  not  meditate  enough  upon  the  lesson 
that  I  read  in  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  the  new  experience  she 
unfolded  to  me. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when,  strolling  in  a 
melancholy  manner  through  the  town,  I  stopped  at  Mr. 
Omer's  door.  Mr.  Omer  had  taken  it  so  much  to  heart,  his 
daughter  told  me,  that  he  had  been  very  low  and  poorly  all 
day,  and  had  gone  to  bed  without  his  pipe. 

"A  deceitful,  bad-hearted  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Joram.  "There 
was  no  good  in  her,  ever  !" 

"  Don't  say  so,"  I  returned.     "You  don't  think  so." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  cried  Mrs.  Joram,  angrily. 

"  No,  no,"  said  I. 

Mrs.  Joram  tossed  her  head,  endeavoring  to  be  very  stern 
and  cross;  but  she  could  not  command  her  softer  self,  and 
began  to  cry.  I  was  young,  to  be  sure;  but  I  thought  much 
the  better  of  her  for  this  sympathy,  and  fancied  it  became 
her,  as  a  virtuous  wife,  and  mother,  very  well  indeed. 

"What  will  she  ever  do  !"  sobbed  Minnie  !  "Where  will 
she  go  !  What  will  become  of  her  !  Oh,  how  could  she  be 
so  cruel,  to  herself  and  him  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  455 

I  remembered  the  time  when  Minnie  was  a  young  and  pretty 
girl;  and  I  was  glad  that  she  remembered  it  too,  so  feel- 
ingly. 

"  My  little  Minnie,"  said  Mrs.  Joram,  "has  only  just  now 
been  got  to  sleep.  Even  in  her  sleep  she  is  sobbing  for 
Em'ly.  All  day  long,  little  Minnie  has  cried  for  her,  and 
asked  me,  over  and  over  again,  whether  Em'ly  was  wicked  ? 
What  can  I  say  to  her,  when  Em'ly  tied  a  ribbon  off  her  own 
neck  round  little  Minnie's  the  last  night  she  was  here,  and 
laid  her  head  down  on  the  pillow  beside  her  until  she  was 
fast  asleep  !  The  ribbon's  round  my  little  Minnie's  neck 
now.  It  ought  not  to  be,  perhaps,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  Em'ly 
is  very  bad,  but  they  were  fond  of  one  another.  And  the  child 
knows  nothing !" 

Mrs.  Joram  was  so  unhappy,  that  her  husband  came  out 
to  take  care  of  her.  Leaving  them  together,  I  went  home  to 
Peggotty's;  more  melancholy  myself,  if  possible,  than  I  had 
been  yet. 

That  good  creature — I  mean  Peggotty — all  untired  by  her 
late  anxieties  and  sleepless  nights,  was  at  her  brother's,  where 
she  meant  to  stay  till  morning.  An  old  woman,  who  had 
been  employed  about  the  house  for  some  weeks  past,  while 
Peggotty  had  been  unable  to  attend  to  it,  was  the  house's 
only  other  occupant  besides  myself.  As  I  had  no  occasion 
for  her  services,  I  sent  her  to  bed,  by  no  means  against  her 
will;  and  sat  down  before  the  kitchen  fir,e  a  little  while,  to 
think  about  all  this. 

I  was  blending  it  with  the  deathbed  of  the  late  Mr.  Barkis, 
and  was  driving  out  with  the  tide  towards  the  distance  at 
which  Ham  had  looked  so  singularly  in  the  morning,  when  I 
was  recalled  from  my  wanderings  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
There  was  a  knocker  upon  the  door,  but  it  was  not  that 
which  made  the  sound.  The  tap  was  from  a  hand,  and  low 
down  upon  the  door,  as  if  it  were  given  by  a  child. 

It  made  me  start  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  the  knock  of  a 
footman  to  a  person  of  distinction.  I  opened  the  door;  and 
at  first  looked  down,  to  my  amazement,  on  nothing  but  a 
great  umbrella  that  appeared  to  be  walking  about  of  itself. 
But  presently  I  discovered  underneath  it,  Miss  Mowcher. 

I  might  not  have  been  prepared  to  give  the  little  creature 
a  very  kind  reception,  if,  on  her  removing  the  umbrella, 
which  her  utmost  efforts  were  unable  to  shut  up,  she  had 
shown  me  the  "  volatile  "  expression  of  face  which  had  made 


45^  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

30  great  an  impression  on  me  at  our  first  and  last  meeting. 
But  her  face,  as  she  turned  it  up  to  mine,  was  so  earnest; 
and  when  I  relieved  her  of-  the  umbrella  (which  would  have 
been  an  inconvenient  one  for  the  Irish  Giant),  she  wrung 
her  Httle  hands  in  such  an  afflicted  manner;  that  I  rather 
inclined  towards  her. 

*'  Miss  Mowcher!"  said  I  after  glancing  up  and  down  the 
empty  street,  without  distinctly  knowing  what  I  expected  to 
see  besides;  "how  do  you  come  here?  What  is  the  matter?" 

She  motioned  to  me,  with  her  short  right  arm,  to  shut  the 
umbrella  for  her;  and  passing  me  hurriedly,  went  into  the 
kitchen.  When  I  had  closed  the  door,  and  followed,  with 
the  umbrella  in  my  hand,  I  found  her  sitting  on  the  corner 
of  the  fender — it  was  a  low  iron  one,  with  two  flat  bars  at 
top  to  stand  plates  upon — in  the  shadow  of  the  boiler,  sway- 
ing herself  backwards  and  forwards,  and  chafing  her  hands 
upon  her  knees  like  a  person  in  pain. 

Quite  alarmed  at  being  the  only  recipient  of  this  untimely 
visit,  and  the  only  spectator  of  this  portentous  behavior,  I 
exclaimed  again:  "Pray  tell  me.  Miss  Mowcher,  what  is 
the  matter!  are  you  ill?" 

"  My  dear  young  soul,"  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  squeez- 
ing her  hands  upon  her  heart  one  over  the  other.  "  I  am 
ill  here,  I  am  very  ill.  To  think  that  it  should  come  to  this, 
when  I  might  have  known  it,  and  perhaps  prevented  it,  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  thoughtless  fool!" 

Again  her  large  bonnet  (very  disproportionate  to  her  fig- 
ure) went  backwards  and  forwards  in  her  swaying  of  her  lit- 
tle body  to  and  fro;  while  a  most  gigantic  bonnet  rocked, 
in  unison  with  it,  upon  the  wall. 

"  I  am  surprised,"  I  began,  "  to  see  you  so  distressed  and 
serious  " — when  she  interrupted  me. 

"Yes,  it's  always  so!"  she  said.  "  They  are  all  surprised, 
these  inconsiderate  young  people,  fairly  and  full  grown,  to 
see  any  natural  feeling  in  a  little  thing  like  me!  They  make 
a  plaything  of  me,  use  me  for  their  amusement,  throw  me 
away  when  they  are  tired,  and  wonder  that  I  feel  more  than 
a  toy  horse  or  a  wooden  soldier!  Yes,  yes,  that's  the  way. 
The  old  way!" 

"  It  may  be,  with  others,"  I  returned,  "  but  I  do  assure  you 
it  is  not  with  me.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  be  at  all  surprised 
to  see  you  as  you  are  now:  I  know  so  little  of  you.  I  said, 
without  consideration,  what  I  thought." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  .  457 

"What  can  I  do?"  returned  the  little  woman,  standing  up, 
and  holding  out  her  arms  to  show  herself.  "  See!  What  I 
am,  my  father  was;  and  my  sister  is;  and  my  brother  is.  I 
have  worked  for  sister  and  brother  these  many  years — hard, 
Mr.  Copperfield — all  day.  I  must  live.  I  do  no  harm.  If 
there  are  people  so  unreflecting  or  so  cruel,  as  to  make  a 
jest  of  me,  what  is  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  make  a  jest  of 
myself,  them,  and  everything?  If  I  do  so,  for  the  time, 
whose  fault  is  that?     Mine?" 

No.     Not  Miss  Mowcher's,  I  perceived. 

"  If  I  had  shown  myself  a  sensitive  dwarf  to  your  false 
friend,"  pursued  the  little  woman,  shaking  her  head  at  me, 
with  reproachful  earnestness,  "  how  much  of  his  help  or 
good-will  do  you  think  /  should  ever  have  had?  If  little 
Mowcher  (who  had  no  hand,  young  gentleman,  in  the  mak- 
ing of  herself)  addressed  herself  to  him,  or  the  like  of  him, 
because  of  her  misfortunes,  when  do  you  suppose  her  small 
voice  would  have  been  heard?  Little  Mowcher  would  have 
as  much  need  to  live,  if  she  was  the  bitterest  and  dullest  of 
pigmies;  but  she  couldn't  do  it.  No.  She  might  whistle 
for  her  bread  and  butter  till  she  died  of  air!" 

Miss  Mowcher  sat  down  on  the  fender  again,  and  took 
out  her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Be  thankful  for  me,  if  you  have  a  kind  heart  as  I  think 
you  have,"  she  said,  "that  while  I  know  well  what  I  am,  I 
can  be  cheerful  and  endure  it  all.  I  am  thankful  for  my- 
self, at  any  rate,  that  I  can  find  my  tiny  way  through  the 
world,  without  being  beholden  to  any  one;  and  that  in  re- 
turn for  all  that  is  thrown  at  me,  in  folly  or  vanity,  as  I  go 
along,  I  can  throw  bubbles  back.  If  I  don't  brood  over  all 
I  want,  it  is  the  better  for  me,  and  not  the  worse  for  any 
one.  If  I  am  a  plaything  for  you  giants,  be  gentle  with  me." 

Miss  Mowcher  replaced  her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket, 
looking  at  me  with  very  intent  expression  all  the  while,  and 
pursued: 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  street  just  now.  You  may  suppose  I 
am  not  able  to  walk  as  fast  as  you,  with  my  short  legs  and 
short  breath,  and  I  couldn't  overtake  you;  but  I  guessed 
where  you  came,  and  came  after  you.  I  have  been  here  be- 
fore you,  to-day,  but  the  good  woman  wasn't  at  home." 

*'  Do  you  know  her?"  I  demanded. 

"  I  know  of  her,  and  about  her,"  she  replied,  "from  Omer 
and  Joram.     I  was  there  at  seven  o'clock  this  morning.     Do 


458  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

you  remember  what  Steerforth  said  to  me  about  this  unfor- 
tunate girl,  that  time  when  I  saw  you  both  at  the  inn?" 

The  great  bonnet  on  Miss  Mowcher's  head,  and  the 
greater  bonnet  on  the  wall,  began  to  go  backwards  and  for- 
wards again  when  she  asked  this  question. 

I  remembered  very  well  what  she  referred  to,  having  had 
it  in  my  thoughts  many  times  that  day.     I  told  her  so. 

"May  the  Father  of  all  Evil  confound  him,"  said  the  lit- 
tle woman,  holding  up  her  forefinger  between  me  and  her 
sparkling  eyes,  "and  ten  times  more  confound  that  wicked 
servant;  but  I  believed  it  \\^,syou  who  had  a  boyish  passion 
for  her!" 

"  I?"  I  repeated. 

"  Child,  child!  In  the  name  of  blind  ill-fortune,"  cried 
Miss  Mowcher,  wringing  her  hands  impatiently,  as  she  went 
to  and  fro  again  upon  the  fender,  "  why  did  you  praise  her 
so,  and  blush,  and  look  disturbed?" 

I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  I  had  done  this, 
though  for  a  reason  very  different  from  her  supposition. 

"What  did  I  know?"  said  Miss  Mowcher,  taking  out  her 
handkerchief  again,  and  giving  one  little  stamp  on  the 
ground  whenever,  at  short  intervals,  she  applied  it  to  her 
eyes  with  both  hands  at  once.  "  He  was  crossing  you  and 
wheedling  you,  I  saw;  and  you  were  soft  wax  in  his  hands, 
I  saw.  Had  I  left  the  room  a  minute,  when  his  man  told 
me  that  '  Young  Innocence '  (so  he  called  you,  and  you  may 
call  him  '  Old  Guilt '  all  the  days  of  your  life)  had  set  his 
heart  upon  her,  and  she  was  giddy  and  liked  him,  but  his 
master  was  resolved  that  no  harm  should  come  of  it — more 
for  your  sake  than  for  hers — and  that  that  was  their  busi- 
ness here?  How  could  I  but  believe  him?  I  saw  Steerforth 
soothe  and  please  you  by  his  praise  of  her?  You  were  the 
first  to  mention  her  name.  You  owned  to  an  old  admiration 
of  her.  You  were  hot  and  cold,  and  red  and  white,  all  at 
once  when  I  spoke  to  you  of  her.  What  could  I  think — 
what  did  I  think — but  that  you  were  a  young  libertine  in 
everything  but  experience,  and  had  fallen  in  hands  that  had 
experience  enough,  and  could  manage  you  (having  the  fancy) 
for  your  own  good!  Oh!  oh!  oh!  They  were  afraid  of  my 
finding  out  the  truth,"  exclaimed  Miss  Mowcher,  getting  off 
the  fender,  and  trotting  up  and  down  the  kitchen  with  her 
two  short  arms  distressfully  lifted  up,  "  because  I  am  a  sharp 
little  thing — I  need  be,  to  get  through  the  world  at  all! — and 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  459 

they  deceived  me  altogether,  and  I  gave  the  poor  unfortu* 
nate  girl  a  letter,  which  I  fully  believe  was  the  beginning  of 
her  ever  speaking  to  Littimer,  who  was  left  behind  on  pur- 
pose!" 

I  stood  amazed  at  the  revelation  of  all  this  perfidy,  look- 
ing at  Miss  Mowcher  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen 
until  she  was  out  of  breath:  when  she  sat  upon  the  fender 
again,  and,  drying  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  shook 
her  hc^ad  for  a  long  time,  without  otherwise  moving,  and 
without  breaking  silence. 

"My  country  rounds,"  she  added  at  length,  "brought  me 
to  Norwich,  Mr.  Copperfield,  the  night  before  last.  What  I 
happened  to  find  out  there,  about  their  secret  way  of  com- 
ing and  going,  without  you — which  was  strange — led  to  my 
suspecting  something  wrong.  I  got  into  the  coach  from 
London  last  night,  as  it  came  through  Norwich,  and  was 
here  this  morning.     Oh,  oh,  oh!  too  late!" 

Poor  little  Mowcher  turned  so  chilly  after  all  her  crying 
and  fretting,  that  she  turned  round  on  the  fender,  putting 
her  poor  little  wet  feet  in  among  the  ashes  to  warm  them, 
and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  like  a  large  doll.  I  sat  in  a  chair 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  lost  in  unhappy  reflections, 
and  looking  at  the  fire  too,  and  sometimes  at  her. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  at  last,  rising  as  she  spoke.  "  It's 
late.     You  don't  mistrust  me  ?" 

Meeting  her  sharp  glance,  which  was  as  sharp  as  ever 
when  she  asked  me,  I  could  not  on  that  short  challenge 
answer  no,  quite  frankly. 

"  Come!"  said  she,  accepting  the  offer  of  my  hand  to  help 
her  over  the  fender,  and  looking  wistfully  up  into  my  face, 
"  you  know  you  wouldn't  mistrust  me,  if  I  was  a  full  sized 
woman!" 

I  felt  that  there  was  much  truth  in  this;  and  I  felt  rather 
ashamed  of  myself. 

*'  You  are  a  young  man,"  she  said  nodding.  "  Take  a 
word  of  advice,  even  from  three  foot  nothing.  Try  not  to 
associate  bodily  defects  with  mental, *my  good  friend,  except 
for  a  solid  reason." 

She  had  got  over  the  fender  now,  and  I  had  got  over  my 
suspicion.  I  told  her  that  I  believed  she  had  given  me  a 
faithful  account  of  herself,  and  that  we  had  both  been  hap- 
less instruments  in  designing  hands.  She  thanked  me,  and 
said  I  was  a  good  fellow. 


46o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Now,  mind!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  back  on  her  way  to 
the  door,  and  looking  shrewdly  at  me,  with  her  forefinger  up 
again.  "  I  have  some  reason  to  suspect,  from  what  I  have 
heard — my  ears  are  always  open;  I  can't  afford  to  spare 
what  powers  I  have — that  they  are  gone  abroad.  But  if 
ever  they  return,  if  ever  any  one  of  them  returns,  while  I 
am  alive,  I  am  more  likely  than  another,  going  about  as  I 
do,  to  find  it  out  soon.  Whatever  I  know,  you  shall  know. 
If  ever  I  can  do  anything  to  serve  the  poor  betrayed  girl,  I 
will  do  it  faithfully,  please  Heaven!  And  Littimer  had  bet- 
ter have  a  bloodhound  at  his  back,  than  little  Mowcher!" 

I  placed  implicit  faith  in  this  last  statement,  when  I 
marked  the  look  with  which  it  was  accompanied. 

"  Trust  me  no  more,  but  trust  me  no  less,  than  you 
would  trust  a  full-sized  woman,"  said  the  little  creature, 
touching  me  appealingly  on  the  wrist.  "  If  ever  you 
see  me  again,  unlike  what  I  am  now,  and  like  what  I  was 
when  you  first  saw  me,  observe  what  company  I  am  in. 
Call  to  mind  that  I  am  a  very  helpless  and  defenceless 
little  thing.  Think  of  me  at  home  with  my  brother  like 
myself  and  sister  like  myself,  when  my  day's  work  is  done. 
Perhaps  you  won't,  then,  be  very  hard  upon  me,  or  sur- 
prised if  I  can  be  distressed  and  serious.     Good  night!" 

I  gave  Miss  Mowcher  my  hand,  with  a  very  different 
opinion  of  her  from  that  which  I  had  hitherto  entertained, 
and  opened  the  door  to  let  her  out.  It  was  not  a  trifling 
business  to  get  the  great  umbrella  up,  and  properly 
balanced  in  her  grasp;  but  at  last  I  successfully  accom- 
plished this,  and  saw  it  go  bobbing  down  the  street  through 
the  rain,  without  the  least  appearance  of  having  anybody 
underneath  it,  except  when  a  heavier  fall  than  usual  from 
some  overcharged  water-spout  sent  it  toppling  over,  on  one 
side,  and  discovered  Miss  Mowcher  struggling  violently  to 
get  it  right.  After  making  one  or  two  sallies  to  her  relief, 
which  were  rendered  futile  by  the  umbrella's  hopping  on 
again,  like  an  immense  bird,  before  I  could  reach  it,  I  came 
in,  went  to  bed,  and  slept  till  morning. 

In  the  morning  I  was  joined  by  Mr.  Peggotty  and  my  old 
nurse,  and  we  went  at  an  early  hour  to  the  coach  office, 
where  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham  were  waiting  to  take  leave 
of  us. 

"  Mas'r  Davy,"  Ham  whispered,  drawing  me  aside,  while 
Mr.  Peggotty  was  stowing  his  bag  among  the  luggage,  "his 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  461 

life  is  quite  broke  up.  He  doen't  know  wheer  he's  going;  he 
doen't  know  what's  afore  him;  he's  bound  upon  a  voyage 
that'll  last,  on  and  off,  all  the  rest  of  his  days,  take  my 
wured  for't,  unless  he  finds  what  he's  a  seeking  of.  I  am 
sure  you'll  be  a  friend  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ?" 

"  Trust  me,  I  will  indeed,"  said  I,  shaking  hands  with 
Ham  earnestly. 

**  Thankee.  Thankee,  very  kind,  sir.  One  thing  furder. 
I'm  in  good  employ,  you  know,  Mas'r  Davy,  and  I  han't  no 
way  now  of  spending  what  I  gets.  Money's  of  no  use  to 
me  no  more,  except  to  live.  If  you  can  lay  it  out  for  him, 
I  shall  do  my  work  with  a  better  art.  Though  as  to  that, 
sir,"  and  he  spoke  very  steadily  and  mildly,  "  you're  not  to 
think  but  I  shall  work  at  all  times,  like  a  man,  and  act  the 
best  that  lays  in  my  power!" 

I  told  him  I  was  well  convinced  of  it;  and  I  hinted  that  I 
hoped  the  time  might  even  come,  when  he  would  cease  to 
lead  the  lonely  life  he  naturally  contemplated  now. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  '^  all  that's  past  and 
over  with  me,  sir.  No  one  can  never  fill  the  place  that's 
empty.  But  you'll  bear  in  mind  about  the  money,  as  there's 
at  all  times  some  laying  by  for  him." 

Reminding  him  of  the  fact,  that  Mr.  Peggotty  derived  a 
steady,  though  certainly  a  very  moderate  income  from  the 
bequest  of  his  late  brother-in-law,  I  promised  to  do  so. 
We  then  took  leave  of  each  other.  I  cannot  leave  him,  even 
now  without  remembering  with  a  pang,  at  once  his  modest 
fortitude  and  his  great  sorrow. 

As  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  if  I  were  to  endeavor  to  describe 
how  she  ran  down  the  street  by  the  side  of  the  coach,  seeing 
nothing  but  Mr.  Peggotty  on  the  roof,  through  the  tears  she 
tried  to  repress,  and  dashing  herself  against  the  people  who 
were  coming  in  the  opposite  direction,  I  should  enter  on  a 
task  of  some  difficulty.  Therefore  I  had  better  leave  her 
sitting  on  a  baker's  door-step,  out  of  breath,  with  no  shape 
at  all  remaining  in  her  bonnet,  and  one  of  her  shoes  off, 
lying  on  the  pavement  at  a  considerable  distance. 

When  we  got  to  our  journey's  end,  our  first  pursuit 'was 
to  look  about  for  a  little  lodging  for  Peggotty,  where  her 
brother  could  have  a  bed.  We  were  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
one,  of  a  very  clean  and  cheap  description,  over  a  chand- 
ler's shop,  only  two  streets  removed  from  me.  When  we  had 
engaged  this  domicile,  I  bought  some  cold  meat  at  an  eating- 


452  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

house,  and  took  my  fellow-travellers  home  to  tea;  a  proceed- 
ing, I  regret  to  state,  which  did  not  meet  with  Mrs.  Crupp's 
approval,  but  quite  the  contrary.  I  ought  to  observe,  how- 
ever, in  explanation  of  that  lady's  state  of  mind,  that  she 
was  much  offended  by  Peggotty's  tucking  up  her  widow's 
gown  before  she  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  place,  and  set- 
ting to  work  to  dust  my  bed-room.  This  Mrs.  Crupp  re- 
garded in  the  light  of  a  liberty,  and  a  liberty,  she  said,  was 
a  thing  she  never  allowed. 

Mr.  Peggotty  had  made  a  communication  to  me  on  the 
way  to  London,  for  which  I  was  not  prepared.  It  was,  that 
he  purposed  first  seeing  Mrs.  Steerforth.  As  I  felt  bound 
to  assist  him  in  this,  and  also  to  mediate  between  them,  with 
the"^view  of  sparing  the  mother's  feelings  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, I  wrote  to  her  that  night.  I  told  her  as  mildly  as  % 
could  what  his  wrong  was,  and  what  my  own  share  in  his 
injury.  I  said  he  was  a  man  in  very  common  life,  but  of  a 
most  gentle  and  upright  character  ;  and  that  I  ventured  to 
express  a  hope  that  she  would  not  refuse  to  see  him  in  his 
heavy  trouble.  I  mentioned  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  as 
the  hour  of  our  coming,  and  sent  the  letter  myself  by  the 
first  coach  in  the  morning. 

At  the  appointed  time,  we  stood  at  the  door — the  door  of 
that  house  where  I  had  been,  a  few  days  since,  so  happy: 
where  my  youthful  confidence  and  warmth  of  heart  had 
been  yielded  up  so  freely:  which  v\'as  closed  against  me 
henceforth:  which  was  now  a  waste,    a  ruin. 

No  Littimer  appea.red.  The  pleasanter  face  which  had 
replaced  his,  on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit,  answered  to 
our  summons,  and  went  before  us  to  the  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Steerforth  was  sitting  there.  Rosa  Dartle  glided,  as  we 
went  in,  from  another  part  of  the  room,  and  stood  behind 
her  chair. 

I  saw,  directly,  in  his  mother's  face,  that  she  knew  from 
hirriself  what  he  had  done.  It  was  very  pale;  and  bore  the 
traces  of  deeper  emotion  than  my  letter  alone,  weakened  by 
the  doubts  her  fondness  would  have  raised  upon  it,  would 
have  been  likely  to  create.  I  thought  her  more  like  him  than 
I  had  ever  thought  her;  and  I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that 
the  resemblance  was  not  lost  on  my  companion. 

She  sat  upright  in  her  arm-chair,  with  a  stately,  immov- 
able, passionless  air,  that  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  dis- 
lurbt    She  iQQked  very  steadfastly  at  Mr.  Peggotty  when  he 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


463 


stood  before  her:  and  he  looked,  quite  as  steadfastly,  at  her. 
Rosa  Dartle's  keen  glance  comprehended  all  of  us.  P'or 
some  moments  not  a  word  was  spoken. 

She  motioned  to  Mr.  Peggotty  to  be  seated.  He  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  *'  I  shouldn't  feel  it  nat'ral  ma'am,  to  sit  down 
in  this  house.  I'd  sooner  stand."  And  this  was  succeeded 
by  another  silence,  which  she  broke  thus: 

"  I  know  with  deep  regret,  what  has  brought  you  here. 
What  do  you  want  of  me  ?     What  do  you  ask  me  to  do  ?" 

He  put  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  feeling  in  his  breast 
for  Emily's  letter,  took  it  out,  unfolded  it,  and  gave  it  to  her. 

*' Please  to  read  that,  ma'am.     That's  my  niece's  hand!" 

She  read  it,  in  the  same  stately  and  impassive  way, — un- 
touched by  its  contents,  as  far  as  I  could  see, — and  returned 
it  to  him. 

"  *  Unless  he  brings  me  back  a  lady,'  "  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
tracing  out  that  part  with  his  finger.  "  I  come  to  know, 
ma'am,  whether  he  will  keep  his  wured?" 

"  No,"  she  returned. 

"  Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  It  is  impossible.  He  would  disgrace  himself.  You  can 
not  fail  to  know  that  she  is  far  below  him." 

"  Raise  her  up!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  She  is  uneducated  and  ignorant." 

*'  Maybe  she's  not;  maybe  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "/ 
think  not,  ma'am;  but  I'm  no  judge  of  them  things.  Teach 
her  better." 

"  Since  you  oblige  me  to  speak  more  plainly,  which  I  am 
very  unwilling  to  do,  her  humble  connections  would  render 
such  a  thing  impossible,  if  nothing  else  did." 

"  Hark  to  this,  ma'am,"  he  returned,  slowly  and  quietly. 
*'  You  know  what  it  is  to  love  your  child.  So  do  I.  If  she 
was  a  hundred  times  my  child,  I  couldn't  love  her  more. 
You  doen't  know  what  it  is  to  lose  your  child.  I  do.  All 
the  heaps  of  riches  in  the  wureld  would  be  nowt  to  me  (if 
they  was  mine)  to  buy  her  back!  But,  save  her  from  this 
disgrace,  and  she  shall  never  be  disgraced  by  us.  Not  one 
of  us  that  she's  growed  up  among,  not  one  of  us  that's  lived 
along  with  her,  and  had  her  for  their  all  in  all,  these  many 
year,  will  ever  look  upon  her  pritty  face  again.  We'll  be 
content  to  let  her  be;  we'll  be  content  to  think  of  her,  far 
off,  as  if  she  was  under  another  sun  and  sky;  we'll  be  con- 
tent to  trust  her  to  her  husband,— to  her  little  children, 


464 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


p'raps, — and  bide  the  time  when  all  of  us  shall  be  alike  in 
quality  afore  our  God!" 

The  rugged  eloquence  with  which  he  spoke  was  not  devoid 
of  all  effect.  She  still  preserved  her  proud  manner,  but 
there  was  a  touch  of  softness  in  her  voice  as  she  answered: 

"  I  justify  nothing.  I  make  no  counter-accusations.  But 
I  am  sorry  to  repeat,  it  is  impossible.  Such  a  marriage 
would  irretrievably  blight  my  son's  career,  and  ruin  his 
prospects.  Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  it  never  can 
take  place,  and  never  will.  If  there  is  any  other  compeu' 
sation " 

"  I  am  looking  at  the  likeness  of  the  face,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  steady  but  a  kindling  eye,  "  that  has 
looked  at  me,  in  my  home,  at  my  fireside,  in  my  boat — wheer 
not  ? — smiling  and  friendly,  when  it  was  so  treacherous, 
that  I  go  half  wild  when  I  think  of  it.  If  the  likeness  of 
that  face  don't  turn  to  burning  fire,  at  the  thought  of  offer- 
ing money  to  me  for  my  child's  blight  and  ruin,  it's  as  bad. 
I  doen't  know,  being  a  lady's,  but  what  it's  worse." 

She  changed  now,  in  a  moment.  An  angry  flush  over- 
spread her  features;  and  she  said,  in  an  intolerant  manner, 
clasping  the  arm-chair  tightly  with  her  hands: 

*'  What  compensation  can  you  make  to  me  for  opening 
such  a  pit  between  me  and  my  son  ?  What  is  your  love  to 
mine  ?    What  is  your  separation  to  ours?" 

Miss  Dartle  softly  touched  her,  and  bent  down  her  head 
to  whisper,  but  she  would  not  hear  a  word. 

*'No,  Rosa,  not  a  word!  Let  the  man  listen  to  what  I 
say!  My  son,  who  has  been  the  object  of  my  life,  to  whom 
its  every  thought  has  been  devoted,  whom  I  have  gratified 
from  a  child  in  every  wish,  from  whom  I  have  had  no  sep- 
arate existence  since  his  birth, — to  take  up  in  a  moment 
with  a  miserable  girl,  and  avoid  me!  To  repay  my  confi- 
dence with  systematic  deception,  for  her  sake,  and  quit  me 
for  her!  To  set  this  wretched  fancy  against  his  mother's 
claims  upon  his  duty,  love,  respect,  gratitude — claims  that 
every  day  and  hour  of  his  life  should  have  strengthened 
into  ties  that  nothing  could  be  proof  against  !  Is  this  no 
injury?" 

Again  Rosa  Dartle  tried  to  soothe  her;  again  ineffect- 
ually. 

"  I  say,  Rosa,  not  a  word!  If  he  can  stake  his  all  upon 
che  lightest  object,  I  can  stake  my  all  upon  a  greater  pur- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  465 

pose.  Let  him  go  where  he  will,  with  the  means  that  my 
love  has  secured  to  him!  Does  he  think  to  reduce  me  by 
long  absence  ?  He  knows  his  mother  very  little  if  he  does. 
Let  him  put  away  his  whim  now,  and  he  is  welcome  back. 
Let  him  not  put  her  away  now,  and  he  never  shall  come 
near  me,  living  or  dying,  while  I  can  raise  my  hand  to  make 
a  sign  against  it,  unless,  being  rid  of  her  for  ever,  he  comes 
humbly  to  me  and  begs  for  my  forgiveness.  This  is  my 
right.  This  is  the  acknowledgment  I  will  have.  This  is 
the  separation  that  there  is  between  us!  And  is  this,"  she 
added,  looking  at  her  visitor,  with  the  proud,  intolerant  air 
with  which  she  had  begun,  *'no  injury?" 

While  I  heard  and  saw  the  mother  as  she  said  these  words, 
I  seemed  to  hear  and  see  the  son,  defying  them.  All  that  I 
had  ever  seen  in  him  of  an  unyielding,  willful  spirit,  I  saw  in 
her.  All  the  understanding  that  I  had  now  of  his  misdi- 
rected energy,  became  an  understanding  of  her  character 
too,  and  a  perception  that  it  was,  in  its  strongest  springs,  the 
same. 

She  now  observed  to  me,  aloud,  resuming  her  former  re- 
straint that  it  was  useless  to  hear  more,  or  to  say  more,  and 
that  she  begged  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview.  She  rose 
with  an  air  of  dignity  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mr.  Peggotty 
signified  that  it  was  needless. 

"  Doen't  fear  me  being  any  hindrance  to  you.  I  have  no 
more  to  say,  ma'am,"  he  remarked,  as  he  moved  towards  the 
door.  "  I  come  heer  with  no  hope,  and  I  take  away  no  hope. 
I  have  done  what  I  thowt  should  be  done,  but  I  never  looked 
fur  any  good  to  come  of  my  stan'ning  where  I  do.  This  has 
been  too  evil  a  house  for  me  and  mine,  for  me  to  be  in  my 
right  senses  and  expect  it." 

With  this,  we  departed  :  leaving  her  standing  by  her 
elbow  chair  a  picture  of  a  noble  presence  and  a  handsome 
face. 

We  had,  on  our  way  out,  to  cross  a  paved  hall,  with 
glass  sides  and  roof,  over  which  a  vine  was  trained.  Its 
leaves  and  shoots  were  green  then,  and  the  day  being  sunny, 
a  pair  of  glass  doors  leading  to  the  garden  were  thrown  open. 
Rosa  Dartle,  entering  this  way  with  noiseless  step,  when  we 
were  close  to  them,  addressed  herself  to  me  : 

"  You  do  well,"  she  said,  "  indeed,  to  bring  this  fellow 
here !" 

Such  a  concentration  of  rage  and  ^Qorn   a^  darkened  her 


466  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

face,  and  flashed  in  her  jet-black  eyes,  I  could  not  have 
thought  compressible  even  into  that  face.  The  scar  made 
by  the  hammer  was,  as  usual  in  this  excited  state  of  her  fea- 
tures, strongly  marked.  When  the  throbbing  I  had  seen  be- 
fore, came  into  it  as  I  looked  at  her,  she  absolutely  lifted  up 
her  hand,  and  struck  it. 

"This  is  a  fellow,"  she  said,  '' to  champion  and  bring  here, 
is  he  not  ?     You  are  a  true  man  !" 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  I  returned,  "  you  are  surely  not  so  unjust 
as  to  condemn  vie  T 

"  Why  do  you  bring  division  between  those  two  mad  crea- 
tures ?"  she  returned.  "  Don't  you  know  that  they  are  both 
mad  with  their  own  self-will  and  pride  ?" 

**  Is  it  my  doing  ?"  I  returned. 

"It  is  your  doing  !"  she  retorted.  "  Why  do  you  bring 
this  man  here  ?" 

"  He  is  a  deeply-injured  man.  Miss  Dartle,"  I  replied. 
"You  may  not  know  it." 

"  I  know  that  James  Steerforth,"  she  said,  with  her  hand 
on  her  bosom,  as  if  to  prevent  the  storm  that  was  raging 
there,  from  being  loud,  "  has  a  false,  corrupt  heart,  and  is  a 
traitor.  But  what  need  I  know  or  care  about  this  fellow, 
and  his  common  niece  ?' 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  I  returned,  "  you  deepen  the  injury.  It  is 
sufificient  already.  I  will  only  say,  at  parting,  that  you  do 
him  a  great  wrong." 

*'  I  do  him  no  wrong,"  she  returned.  "  They  are  a  de- 
praved, worthless  set.     I  would  have  her  whipped." 

Mr.  Peggotty  passed  on,  without  a  word,  and  went  out  at 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  shame.  Miss  Dartle  !  shame  !"  I  said  indignantly. 
"  How  can  you  bear  to  trample  on  his  undeserved  affliction  .'" 

"  I  would  trample  on  them  all,"  she  answered.  "  I  would 
have  his  house  pulled  down.  I  would  have  her  branded  on 
the  face,  dressed  in  rags,  and  cast  out  in  the  streets  to 
starve.  If  I  had  the  power  to  sit  in  judgment  on  her,  I 
would  see  it  done.  See  it  done  ?  I  would  do  it!  I  detest 
her.  If  I  ever  could  reproach  her  with  her  infamous  con- 
dition, I  would  go  anywhere  to  do  so.  If  I  could  hunt  her 
to  her  grave,  I  would.  If  there  was  any  word  of  comfort 
that  would  be  a  solace  to  her  in  her  dying  hour,  and 
only  I  possessed  it,  I  wouldn't  part  with  it  for  Life  itself." 

yhe  mere  vghemej^e^  pf  her  words  can   convey,  I  aiA 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  467 

sensible,  but  a  weak  impression  of  the  passion  by  which 
she  was  possessed,  and  which  made  itself  articulate  in  her 
whole  figure,  though  her  voice,  instead  of  being  raised, 
was  lower  than  usual.  No  description  I  could  give  of  her 
would  do  justice  to  my  recollection  of  her,  or  to  her  entire 
deliverance  of  herself  to  her  anger.  I  have  seen  passion 
in  many  forms,  but  I  have  never  seen  it  in  such  a  form  as 
that. 

When  I  joined  Mr.  Peggotty,  he  was  walking  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  down  the  hill.  He  told  me,  as  soon  as  I  came 
up  with  him,  that  having  now  discharged  his  mind  of  what 
he  had  purposed  doing  in  London,  he  meant  "  to  set  out 
on  his  travels,"  that  night.  I  asked  him  where  he  meant  to 
go  ?     He  only  answered,  "  I'm  agoing,  sir,  to  seek  my  niece." 

We  went  back  to  the  little  lodging  over  the  chandler's 
shop,  and  there  I  found  an  opportunity  of  repeating  to  Peg- 
gotty what  he  had  said  to  me.  She  informed  me,  in  return, 
that  he  had  said  the  same  to  her  that  morning.  She  knew 
no  more  than  I  did,  where  he  was  going,  but  she  thought  he 
had  some  project  shaped  out  in  his  mind. 

I  did  not  like  to  leave  him,  under  such  circumstances,  and 
we  all  three  dined  together  off  a  beefsteak  pie — which  was 
one  of  the  many  good  things  for  which  Peggotty  was  famous 
— and  which  was  curiously  flavored  on  this  occasion,  I  re- 
collect well,  by  a  miscellaneous  taste  of  tea,  coffee,  butter, 
bacon,  cheese,  new  loaves,  firewood,  candles,  and  walnut 
ketchup,  continually  ascending  from  the  shop.  After  din- 
ner we  sat  for  an  hour  or  so  near  the  window,  without  talk- 
ing much;  and  then  Mr.  Peggotty  got  up,  and  brought  his 
oil-skin  bag  and  his  stout  stick,  and  laid  them  on  the  table. 

He  accepted,  from  his  sister's  stock  of  ready  money,  a 
small  sum  on  account  of  his  legacy;  barely  enough,  I  should 
have  thought,  to  keep  him  for  a  month.  He  promised  to 
communicate  with  me,  when  anything  befell  him;  and  he 
slung  his  bag  about  him,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  and  bade 
us  both  '*  Good  by  !" 

"All  good  attend  you,  dear  old  woman,"  he  said,  embrac- 
ing  Peggotty,  "  and  you  too,  Mas'r  Davy  !"  shaking  hands 
with  me.  "  I'm  agoing  to  seek  her,  fur  and  wide.  ^  If  she 
should  come  home  while  I'm  away, — but  ah,  that  ain't  like 
to  be  ! — or  if  I  should  bring  her  back,  my  meaning  is,  that 
she  and  me  shall  live  and  die  where  no  one  can't  reproach 
her.    If  any  hurt  should  come  to  me,  remember  that  the 


468  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

last  words  I  left  for  her  was,  *  My  unchanged  love  is  with 
my  darhng  child,  and  I  forgive  her  !'  " 

He  said  this  solemnly,  bare-headed;  then,  putting  on  his 
hat,  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  away.  We  followed  to 
the  door.  It  was  a  warm,  dusty  evening,  just  the  time  when, 
in  the  great  main  thoroughfare  out  of  which  that  bye-way 
turned,  there  was  a  temporary  lull  in  the  eternal  tread  of 
feet  upon  the  pavement,  and  a  strong  red  sunshine.  He 
turned,  alone,  at  the  corner  of  our  shady  street,  into  a  glow 
of  light,  in  which  we  lost  him. 

Rarely  did  that  hour  of  the  evening  come,  rarely  did  I 
wake  at  night,  rarely  did  I  look  up  at  the  moon,  or  stars,  or 
watch  the  falling  rain,  or  hear  the  wind,  but  I  thought  of 
his  solitary  figure  toiling  on,  poor  pilgrim,  and  recalled  the 
words: 

"  I'm  agoing  to  seek  her,  fur  and  wide.  If  any  hurt 
should  come  to  me,  remember  that  the  last  words  I  left  for 
her  was,  *  My  unchanged  love  is  with  my  darling  child,  and 
I  forgive  her  V  " 


CHAPTER    XXXIIL 

BLISSFUL. 

All  this  time,  I  had  gone  on  loving  Dora,  harder  than 
ever.  Her  ideal  was  my  refuge  in  disappointment  and  dis- 
tress, and  made  some  amends  to  me,  even  for  the  loss  of  my 
mend.  The  more  I  pitied  myself,  or  pitied  others,  the 
more  I  sought  for  consolation  in  the  image  of  Dora.  The 
greater  the  accumulation  of  deceit  and  trouble  in  the  world, 
the  brighter  and  the  purer  shone  the  star  of  Dora  high  above 
the  world.  I  don't  think  I  had  any  definite  idea  where 
Dora  came  from,  or  in  what  degree  she  was  related  to  a 
higher  order  of  beings;  but  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have 
scouted  the  notion  of  her  being  simply  human,  like  any 
other  young  lady,  with  indignation  and  contempt. 

If  I  may  so  express  it,  I  was  steeped  in  Dora.  I  was  not 
merely  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her,  but  I  was  satu- 
rated through  and  through.  Enough  love  might  have  been 
wrung  out  of  me,  metaphorically  speaking,  to  drown  any- 
body in;  and  yet  there  would  have  remained  enough  within 
lae,  and  all  over  me,  to  pervade  my  entire  existence. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  4^9 

The  first  thing  I  did,  on  my  own  account,  when  1  came 
back,  was  to  take  a  night  walk  to  Norwood,  and,  like  the 
subject  of  a  venerable  riddle  of  my  childhood  to  go  '*  round 
and  round  the  house,  without  ever  touching  the  house," 
thinking  about  Dora.  I  believe  the  theme  of  this  incom- 
prehensible conundrum  was  the  moon.  No  matter  what  it 
was,  I,  the  moon-struck  slave  of  Dora,  perambulated  round 
and  round  the  house  and  garden  for  two  hours,  looking 
through  crevices  in  the  palings,  getting  my  chin  by  dint  of 
violent  exertion  above  the  rusty  nails  on  the  top,  blowing 
kisses  at  the  lights  in  the  windows,  and  romantically  calling 
on  the  night,  at  intervals,  to  shield  my  Dora — I  don't  ex- 
actly know  what  from,  I  suppose  from  fire.  Perhaps  from 
mice,  to  which  she  had  a  great  objection. 

My  love  was  so  much  on  my  mind,  and  it  was  so  natural 
to  me  to  confide  in  Peggotty,  when  I  found  her  again  by  my 
side  of  an  evening  with  the  old  set  of  industrial  implements, 
busily  making  the  tour  of  my  wardrobe,  that  I  imparted  to  hei 
in  a  sufficiently  roundabout  way,  my  great  secret,  Peggotty 
was  strongly  interested,  but  I  could  not  get  her  into  my 
view  of  the  case  at  all.  She  was  audaciously  prejudiced  in 
my  favor,  and  quite  unable  to  understand  why  I  should  have 
any  misgivings,  or  be  low-spirited  about  it.  "  The  young 
lady  might  think  herself  well  off,"  she  observed,  "  to  have 
such  a  beau.  And  as  to  her  pa,"  she  said,  *' what  did  the 
gentleman  expect,  for  gracious  sake  !" 

I  observed,  however,  that  Mr.  Spenlow's  Proctorial  gown 
and  stiff  cravat  took  Peggotty  down  a  little,  and  inspired 
her  with  greater  reverence  for  the  man  who  was  gradually 
becoming  more  and  more  etherealized  in  my  eyes  every  day, 
and  about  whom  a  reflected  radiance  seemed  to  me  to  beam 
when  he  sat  erect  in  Court  among  his  papers,  like  a  little 
light-house  in  a  sea  of  stationery.  And  by-the-by,  it  used 
to  be  uncommonly  strange  to  me  to  consider,  I  remember, 
as  I  sat  in  Court  too,  how  those  dim  old  judges  and  doc- 
tors wouldn't  have  cared  for  Dora,  if  they  had  known  her; 
how  they  wouldn't  have  gone  out  of  their  senses  with  rap- 
ture, if  marriage  with  Dora  had  been  proposed  to  them; 
how  Dora  might  have  sung,  and  played  upon  that  glorified 
guitar,  until  she  led  me  to  the  verge  of  madness,  yet  not 
have  tempted  one  of  those  slow-goers  an  inch  out  of  his  road  ,' 

I  despised  them,  to  a  man.  Frozen-out  old  gardeners  in 
the  flower-beds  of  the  heart,  I  took  a  personal  offense  against 


470  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

them  all.  The  Bench  was  nothing  to  me  but  an  insensible 
blunderer.  The  Bar  had  no  more  tenderness  or  poetry  in 
it,  than  the  Bar  of  a  public-house. 

Taking  the  management  of  Peggotty's  affairs  into  my  own 
hands,  with  no  little  pride,  I  proved  the  will,  and  came  to  a 
settlement  with  the  Legacy-Duty  Office,  and  took  her  to  the 
Bank,  and  soon  got  everything  into  an  orderly  train.  We 
varied  the  legal  character  of  these  proceedings  by  going  to 
see  some  perspiring  Wax-work,  in  Fleet  Street  (melted,  I 
should  hope,  these  twenty  years);  and  by  visiting  Miss  Lin- 
wood's  Exhibition,  which  I  remember  as  a  Mausoleum  of 
needlework,  favorable  to  self-examination  and  repentance; 
and  by  inspecting  the  Tower  of  London;  and  going  to  the 
top  of  St.  Paul'Sw  All  these  wonders  afforded  Peggotty  as 
much  pleasure  as  she  was  able  to  enjoy,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances; except,  I  think,  St.  Paul's,  which  from  her  long 
attachment  to  her  workbox,  became  a  rival  of  the  picture 
on  the  lid,  and  was,  in  some  particulars,  vanquished,  she 
considered,  by  that  work  of  art. 

Peggotty's  business  which  was  what  we  used  to  call  "  com- 
mon-form business"  in  the  Commons  (and  very  light  and 
lucrative  the  common-form  business  was),  being  settled,  I 
took  her  down  to  the  office  one  morning  to  pay  her  bill. 
Mr.  Spenlow  had  stepped  out,  old  Tiffey  said,  to  get  a  gen- 
tleman sworn  for  a  marriage  license;  but  as  I  knew  he  would 
be  back  directly,  our  place  lying  close  to  the  Surrogate's, 
and  to  the  Vicar-General's  office  too,  I  told  Peggotty  to  wait. 

We  were  a  little  like  undertakers,  in  the  Commons,  as  re- 
garded Probate  transactions;  generally  making  it  a  rule  to 
look  more  or  less  cut  up,  when  we  had  to  deal  with  clients 
in  mourning.  In  a  similar  feeling  of  delicacy,  we  were 
always  blithe  and  light-hearted  with  the  license  clients. 
Therefore  I  hinted  to  Peggotty  that  she  would  find  Mr. 
Spenlow  much  recovered  from  the  shock  of  Mr.  Barkis's 
decease:  and  indeed  he  came  in  like  a  bridegroom. 

But  neither  Peggotty  nor  I  had  eyes  for  him,  when  we 
saw,  in  company  with  him,  Mr.  Murdstone.  He  was  very 
little  changed.  His  hair  looked  as  thick,  and  was  certainly 
as  black,  as  ever;  and  his  glance  was  as  little  to  be  trusted 
as  of  old. 

"  Ah,  Copperfield  ?"  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "  You  know  this 
gentleman,  I  believe  ?" 

I  made  my  gentleman  a  distant  bow,  and  Peggotty  barely 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  47 1 

recognized  him.  He  was,  at  first,  somewhat  disconcerted 
to  meet  us  two  together;  but  quickly  decided  what  to  do, 
and  came  up  to  me. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  doing  well  ?" 

"It  can  hardly  be  interesting  to  you,"  said  I.  "Yes,  if 
you  wish  to  know." 

We  looked  at  each  other,  and  he  addressed  himself  to 
Peggotty. 

*'  And  you,"  said  he.  "  I  am  sorry  to  observe  that  you 
have  lost  your  husband." 

"  It's  not  the  first  loss  I  have  had  in  my  life,  Mr.  Murd- 
stone,"  replied  Peggotty,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  "  I 
am  glad  to  hope  that  there  is  nobody  to  blame  for  this  one, 
— nobody  to  answer  for  it." 

"  Ha  !"  said  he;  "  that's  a  comfortable  reflection.  You 
have  done  your  duty  ?" 

"  I  have  not  worn  anybody's  life  away,"  said  Peggotty, 
"  I  am  thankful  to  think  !  No,  Mr.  Murdstone,  I  have  not 
worrited  and  frightened  any  sweet  creetur  to  an  early  grave!" 

He  eyed  her  gloomily — remorsefully  I  thought — for  an 
instant;  and  said,  turning  his  head  towards  me,  but  looking 
at  my  feet  instead  of  my  face: 

"  We  are  not  likely  to  encounter  soon  again — a  source  of 
satisfaction  to  us  both,  no  doubt,  for  such  meetings  as  this 
can  never  be  agreeable.  I  do  not  expect  that  you,  who 
always  rebelled  against  my  just  authority,  exerted  for  your 
benefit  and  reformation,  should  owe  me  any  good-will  now. 
There  is  an  antipathy  between  us " 

*'  An  old  one,  I  believe  ?"  said  I,  interrupting  him. 

He  smiled,  and  shot  as  evil  a  glance  at  me  as  could  come 
from  his  dark  eyes. 

"  It  rankled  in  your  baby  breast,"  he  said.  "  It  embittered 
the  life  of  your  poor  mother.  You  are  right.  I  hope  you 
may  do  better,  yet;  I  hope  you  may  correct  yourself." 

Here  he  ended  the  dialogue,  which  had  been  carried  on 
in  a  low  voice,  in  a  corner  of  the  outer  office,  by  passing 
into  Mr.  Spenlow's  room,  and  saying  aloud,  in  his  smoothest 
manner: 

"  Gentlemen  of  Mr.  Spenlow's  profession  are  accustomed 
to  family  differences,  and  know  how  complicated  and  difficult 
they  always  are  !"  With  that  he  paid  the  money  for  his 
license;  and,  receiving  it  neatly  folded  from  Mr.  Spenlow, 
together  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  polite  wish  for  his 
happiness  and  the  lady's,  went  out  of  the  office. 


47«  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  might  have  had  more  difficulty  in  constraining  myself  to 
be  silent  under  his  words,  if  I  had  had  less  difficulty  in  im- 
pressing upon  Peggotty  (who  was  only  angry  on  my  account, 
good  creature  !)  that  we  were  not  in  a  place  for  recrimina- 
tion, and  that  I  besought  her  to  hold  her  peace.  She  was 
so  unusually  roused,  that  I  was  glad  to  compound  for  an 
affectionate  hug,  elicited  by  this  revival  in  her  mind  of  our 
old  injuries,  and  to  make  the  best  I  could  of  it,  before  Mr. 
Spenlow  and  the  clerks. 

Mr.  Spenlow  did  not  appear  to  know  what  the  connexion 
between  Mr.  Murdstone  and  myself  was;  which  I  was  glad 
of,  for  I  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  him,  even  in  my 
own  breast,  remembering  what  I  did  of  the  history  of  my 
poor  mother.  Mr.  Spenlow  seemed  to  think,  if  he  thought 
anything  about  the  matter,  that  my  aunt  was  the  leader  of 
the  state  party  in  our  family,  and  that  there  was  a  rebel 
party  commanded  by  somebody  else — so  I  gathered  at  least 
from  what  he  said,  while  we  were  waiting  for  Mr.  Tiffey  to 
make  out  Peggotty's  bill  of  costs. 

"Miss  Trotwood,"  he  remarked,  "is  very  firm,  no  doubt, 
and  not  likely  to  give  way  to  opposition.  I  have  an  admira- 
tion for  her  character,  and  I  may  congratulate  you,  Cop- 
perfield,  on  being  on  the  right  side.  Differences  between 
relations  are  much  to  be  deplored — but  they  are  extremely 
general — and  the  great  thing  is,  to  be  on  the  right  side:" 
meaning,  I  take  it,  on  the  side  of  the  moneyed  interest. 

"  Rather  a  good  marriage,  this,  I  believe?"  said  Mr.  Spen- 
low. 

I  explained  that  I  knew  nothing  about  it. 
"  Indeed!"  he  said.     "  Speaking  from  the  few  words  Mr. 
Murdstone  dropped — as  a  man  frequently  does  on  these  oc- 
casions— and  from  what  Miss  Murdstone  let  fall,  I  should 
say  it  was  rather  a  good  marriage." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  money,  sir?"  I  asked. 
"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  "I  understand  there's  money. 
Beauty  too,  I  am  told." 

"  Indeed?     Is  his  new  wife  young?" 

"Just  of  age,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "So  lately  that  I 
should  think  they  had  been  waiting  for  that." 

"  Lord  deliver  her,"  said  Peggotty.  So  very  emphatically 
and  unexpectedly,  that  we  were  all  three  discomposed;  until 
Tiffey  came  in  with  the  bill. 

Old  Tiffey  soon  appeared,  however,  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 


'i^/- 


1      *    •>    > 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  473 

Spenlow,  to  look  over.  Mr.  Spenlow,  settling  his  chin  in 
his  cravat  and  rubbing  it  softly,  went  over  the  items  with  a 
deprecatory  air — as  if  it  were  all  Jorkins's  doing — and 
handed  it  back  to  Tiffey  with  a  bland  sigh. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  That's  right.  Quite  right.  I  should 
have  been  extremely  happy,  Copperfield,  to  have  limited 
these  charges  to  the  actual  expenditure  out  of  pocket;  but 
it  is  an  irksome  incident  in  my  professional  life,  that  I  am 
not  at  liberty  to  consult  my  own  wishes.  I  have  a  partner 
•^Mr.  Jorkins." 

As  he  said  this  with  a  gentle  melancholy,  which  was  the 
next  thing  to  making  no  charge  at  all,  I  expressed  my  ac- 
knowledgments on  Peggotty's  behalf,  and  paid  Tiffey  in 
bank  notes.  Peggotty  then  retired  to  her  lodging,  and  Mr. 
Spenlow  and  I  went  into  Court,  where  we  had  a  divorce 
suit  coming  on,  under  an  ingenious  little  statute  (repealed 
now,  I  believe,  but  in  virtue  of  which  I  had  seen  several 
marriages  annulled),  of  which  the  merits  were  these.  The 
hu»sband,  whose  name  was  Thomas  Benjamin,  had  taken  out 
his  marriage  license  as  Thomas  only;  suppressing  the  Ben- 
jamin, in  case  he  should  not  find  himself  as  comfortable  as 
he  expected.  Not  finding  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  ex- 
pected, or  being  a  little  fatigued  with  his  wife,  poor  fellow, 
he  now  came  forward  by  a  friend,  after  being  married  a 
year  or  two,  and  declared  that  his  name  was  Thomas  Ben- 
jamin, and  therefore  he  was  not  married  at  all.  Which  the 
Court  confirmed,  to  his  great  satisfaction. 

I  must  say  that  I  had  my  doubts  about  the  strict  justice 
of  this,  and  was  not  even  frightened  out  of  them  by  the 
bushel  of  wheat  which  reconciles  all  anomalies.  But  Mr. 
Spenlow  argued  the  matter  with  me.  He  said,  look  at  the 
world,  there  was  good  and  evil  in  that;  look  at  the  ecclesi- 
astical law,  there  was  good  and  evil  in  that.  It  was  all  part 
of  a  system.     Very  good.     There  you  were! 

I  had  not  the  hardihood  to  suggest  to  Dora's  father  that 
possibly  we  might  even  improve  the  world  a  little,  if  we  got 
up  early  in  the  morning  and  took  off  our  coats  to  the  work; 
but  I  confessed  that  I  thought  we  might  improve  the  Com- 
mons. Mr.  Spenlow  replied  that  he  would  particularly  ad- 
vise me  to  dismiss  that  idea  from  my  mind,  as  not  being 
worthy  of  my  gentlemanly  character;  but  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  hear  from  me  of  what  improvement  I  thought  the 
Commons  susceptible? 


474  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Taking  that  part  of  the  Commons  which  happened  to  be 
nearest  to  us — for  our  man  was  unmarried  by  this  time,  and 
we  were  out  of  Court  and  strolling  past  the  Prerogative 
Office — I  submitted  that  I  thought  the  Prerogative  Office 
rather  a  queerly  managed  institution.  Mr.  Spenlow  inquir- 
ed in  what  respect  ?  I  replied  with  all  due  deference  to 
his  experience  (but  with  more  deference,  I  am  afraid,  to  his 
being  Dora's  father),  that  perhaps  it  was  a  little  nonsensical 
that  the  Registry  of  that  Court,  containing  the  original  wills 
of  all  persons  leaving  effects  within  the  immense  province 
of  Canterbury,  for  three  whole  centuries,  should  be  an  ac- 
cidental building,  never  designed  for  the  purpose,  leased  by 
the  registrars  for  their  own  private  emoluments,  unsafe,  not 
tven  ascertained  to  be  fire-proof,  choked  with  the  important 
documents  it  held,  and  positively,  from  the  roof  to  the  base- 
ment, a  mercenary  speculation  of  the  registrars,  who  took 
great  fees  from  the  public,  and  crammed  the  public's  wills 
away  anyhow  and  anywhere,  having  no  other  object  than  to 
get  rid  of  them  cheaply. «  That,  perhaps,  it  was  a  little  un- 
reasonable that  these  registrars  in  the  receipt  of  profits 
amounting  to  eight  or  nine  thousand  pounds  a  year  (to  say 
nothing  of  the  profits  of  the  deputy  registrars  and  clerks  of 
seats),  should  not  be  obliged  to  spend  a  little  of  that 
money,  in  finding  a  reasonably  safe  place  for  the  important 
documents,  which  all  classes  of  people  were  compelled  to 
hand  over  to  them,  whether  they  would  or  no.  That,  per- 
haps, it  was  a  little  unjust  that  all  the  great  offices  in  this 
great  office,  should  be  magnificent  sinecures,  while  the  un- 
fortunate working-clerks  in  the  cold  dark  room  up-stairs 
were  the  worst  rewarded,  and  the  least  considered  men,  do- 
ing important  services,  in  London.  That  perhaps  it  was  a 
little  indecent  that  the  principal  registrar  of  all,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  find  the  public,  constantly  resorting  to  this  place, 
all  needful  accommodation,  should  be  an  enormous  sine- 
curist  in  virtue  of  that  post  (and  might  be,  besides,  a  clergy- 
man, a  pluralist,  the  h'older  of  a  stall  in  a  cathedral,  and 
what  not), — while  the  public  was  put  to  the  inconvenience 
of  which  we  had  a  specimen  every  afternoon  when  the  office 
was  busy,  and  which  we  knew  to  be  quite  monstrous.  That, 
perhaps,  in  short,  this  Prerogative  Office  of  the  diocese  of 
Canterbury  was  altogether  such  a  pestilent  job,  and  such  a 
pernicious  absurdity,  that  but  for  its  being  squeezed  away, 
in  a  corner  of  St.   Paul's  Churchyard,  which  few  people 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  475 

knew,  it  must  have  been  turned  completely  inside  out,  and 
upside  down,  long  ago. 

Mr.  Spenlow  smiled  as  I  became  modestly  warm  on  the 
subject,  and  then  argued  this  question  with  me  as  he  had 
argued  the  other.  He  said,  what  was  it  after  all  ?  It  was 
a  question  of  feeling.  If  the  pubHc  felt  that  their  wills  were 
in  safe  keeping,  and  took  it  for  granted  that  the  office  was 
not  to  be  made  better,  who  was  the  worse  for  it  ?  Nobody. 
Who  was  the  better  for  it  ?  All  the  sinecurists.  Very  well. 
Then  the  good  predominated.  It  might  not  be  a  perfect 
system;  nothing  was  perfect;  but  what  he  objected  to,  was 
the  insertion  of  the  wedge.  Under  the  Prerogative  Office, 
the  country  had  been  glorious.  Insert  the  wedge  into  the 
Prerogative  Office,  and  the  country  would  cease  to  be  glori- 
ous. He  considered  it  the  principle  of  a  gentleman  to  take 
things  as  he  found  them;  and  he  had  no  doubt  the  Preroga- 
tive Office  would  last  our  time.  I  deferred  to  his  opinion, 
though  I  had  great  doubts  of  it  myself.  I  find  he  was  right, 
however;  for  it  has  not  only  lasted  to  the  present  moment, 
but  has  done  so  in  the  teeth  of  a  great  parliamentary  report 
made  (not  too  willingly)  eighteen  years  ago,  when  all  these 
objections  of  mine  were  set  forth  in  detail,  and  when  the 
existing  stowage  for  wills  was  described  as  equal  to  the  ac- 
cumulation of  only  two  years  and  a  half  more.  What  they 
have  done  with  them  since;  whether  they  have  lost  many,  or 
whether  they  sell  any,  now  and  then,  to  the  butter  shops;  I 
don't  know.  I  am  glad  mine  is  not  there,  and  I  hope  it 
may  not  go  there,  yet  awhile. 

I  have  set  all  this  down  in  my  present  blissful  chapter, 
because  here  it  comes  into  its  natural  place.  Mr.  Spenlow 
and  I  falling  into  this  conversation,  prolonged  it  and  our 
saunter  to  and  fro,  until  we  diverged  into  general  topics. 
And  so  it  came  about,  in  the  end,  that  Mr.  Spenlow  told  me 
this  day  week  was  Dora's  birthday,  and  he  would  be  glad  if 
I  would  comedown  and  join  a  little pic-nic on  the  occasion. 
I  went  out  of  my  senses  immediately ;  became  a  mere  drivel- 
er, next  day,  on  receipt  of  a  little  lace-edged  sheet  of  note 
paper,  "Favored  by  papa.  To  remind;"  and  passed  the 
intervening  period  in  a  state  of  dotage. 

I  think  I  committed  every  possible  absurdity,  in  the  way 
of  preparation  for  this  blessed  event.  I  turn  hot  when  I 
remember  the  cravat  1  bought.  My  boots  might  be  placed 
in  any  collection  of  instruments  of  torture.     I  provided, 


47<5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  sent  down  by  the  Norwood  coach  the  night  before,  a 
delicate  little  hamper,  amounting  in  itself,  I  thought,  almost 
to  a  declaration.  There  were  crackers  in  it  with  the  ten- 
derest  mottoes  that  could  be  got  for  money.  At  six  in  the 
morning  I  was  in  Covent  Garden  Market,  buying  a  bouquet 
for  Dora.  At  ten  I  was  on  horseback  (I  hired  a  gallant  gray 
for  the  occasion),  with  the  bouquet  in  my  hat,  to  keep  it 
fresh,  trotting  down  to  Norwood. 

I  suppose  that  when  I  saw  Dora  in  the  garden  and  pre- 
tended not  to  see  her,  and  rode  past  the  house  pretending 
to  be  anxiously  looking  for  it,  I  committed  two  small  fool- 
eries which  other  young  gentlemen  in  my  circumstances 
might  have  committed — because  they  came  so  very  natural 
to  me.  But  oh!  when  I  did  find  the  house,  and  did  dis- 
mount at  the  garden  gate,  and  drag  those  stony-hearted 
boots  across  the  lawn  to  Dora  sitting  on  a  garden  seat  un- 
der a  lilac  tree,  what  a  spectacle  she  was,  upon  that  beauti- 
ful morning,  among  the  butterflies,  in  a  white  chip  bonnet 
and  a  dress  of  celestial  blue! 

There  was  a  young  lady  with  her — comparatively  stricken 
in  years — almost  twenty,  I  should  say.  Her  name  was  Miss 
Mills,  and  Dora  called  her  Julia;  She  was  the  bosom  friend 
of  Dora.     Happy  Miss  Mills! 

Jip  was  there,  and  Jip  would  bark  at  me  again.  When  I 
presented  my  bouquet,  he  gnashed  his  teeth  with  jealousy. 
Well  he  might.  If  he  had  the  least  idea  how  I  adored  his 
mistress,  well  he  might! 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Copperfield!  What  dear  flowers!" 
said  Dora. 

I  had  had  an  intenti^'m  of  saying  (and  had  been  studying 
the  best  form  of  words  for  three  miles)  that  I  thought  them 
beautiful  before  I  $)^w  them  so  near  her.  But  I  couldn't 
manage  it.  She  wa^  too  bewildering.  To  see  her  lay  the 
flowers  against  her  little  dimpled  chin,  was  to  lose  all  pres- 
ence of  mind  and  ^,X)wer  of  language  in  a  feeble  ecstasy.  I 
wonder  I  didn't  say,  "  Kill  me,  if  you  have  a  heart,  Miss 
Mills.     Let  me  die  here!" 

Then  Dora  held  my  flowers  to  Jip  to  smell.  Then  Jip 
growled,  and  v/ouldn't  smell  them.  Then  Dora  laughed, 
and  held  there  a  little  closer  to  Jip,  to  make  him.  Then 
Jip  laid  ho^r\  of  a  bit  of  geranium  with  his  teeth,  and  wor- 
"^ied  im;igiT>stry  cats  in  it.  Then  Dora  beat  him,  and  pout- 
'-^  n><i  m^d,  "  My  poor  beautiful  flowers!"  as  compassion- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  477 

ately,  I  thought,  as  if  Jip  had  laid  hold  of  me.  I  wished  he 
had! 

"You'll  be  so  glad  to  hear,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Dora, 
"  that  the  cross  Miss  Murdstone  is  not  here.  She  has  gone 
to  her  brother's  marriage,  and  will  be  away  at  least  three 
weeks.     Isn't  that  delightful?" 

I  said  I  was  sure  it  must  be  delightful  to  her,  and  all  that 
was  delightful  to  her  was  delightful  to  me.  Miss  Mills,  with 
an  air  of  superior  wisdom  and  benevolence,  smiled  upon  us. 

"  She  is  the  most  disagreeable  thing  I  ever  saw,"  said 
Dora.  "  You  can't  believe  how  ill-tempered  and  shocking 
she  is,  Julia." 

"Yes,  I  can,  my  dear!"  said  Julia. 

*^You  can,  perhaps,  love,"  returned  Dora,  with  her  hand 
on  Julia's.  "  Forgive  my  not  excepting  you,  my  dear,  at 
first." 

I  learnt,  from  this,  that  Miss  Mills  had  had  her  trials  in 
the  course  of  a  checkered  existence:  and  that  to  these, 
perhaps,  I  might  refer  that  wise  benignity  of  manner  which 
I  had  already  noticed.  I  found,  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
that  this  was  the  case:  Miss  Mills  having  been  unhappy  in 
a  misplaced  affection,  and  being  understood  to  have  retired 
from  the  world  on  her  awful  stock  of  experience,  but  still 
to  take  a  calm  interest  in  the  unblighted  hopes  and  loves  of 
youth. 

But  now  Mr.  Spenlow  came  out  of  the  house,  and  Dora 
went  to  him,  saying,  "  Look,  papa,  what  beautiful  flowers!" 
And  Miss  Mills  smiled  thoughtfully,  as  who  should  say, 
*'Ye  May-flies,  enjoy  your  brief  existence  in  the  bright 
morning  of  life!"  And  we  all  walked  from  the  lawn  towards 
the  carriage,  which  was  getting  ready. 

I  shall  never  have  such  a  ride  again.  I  have  never  had 
such  another.  There  were  only  those  three,  their  hamper, 
my  hamper,  and  the  guitar-case,  in  a  phaeton;  and,  of 
course,  the  phaeton  was  open;  and  I  rode  behind  it,  and 
Dora  sat  with  her  back  to  the  horses,  looking  towards  me. 
She  kept  the  bouquet  close  to  her  on  the  cushion,  and 
wouldn't  allow  Jip  to  sit  on  that  side  of  her  at  all,  for  fear 
he  should  crush  it.  She  often  carried  it  in  her  hand,  often 
refreshed  herself  with  its  fragrance.  Our  eyes  at  those 
times  often  met;  and  my  great  astonishment  is  that  I  didn't 
go  over  the  head  of  my  gallant  gray  into  the  carriage.    . 

There  was  dust,  I  believe.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  dust, 


478  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  believe,  I  have  a  faint  impression  that  Mr.  Spenlow  re- 
monstrated with  me  for  riding  in  it;  but  I  knew  of  none.  I 
was  sensible  of  a  mist  of  love  and  beauty  about  Dora,  but 
of  nothing  else.  He  stood  up  sometimes,  and  asked  me 
what  I  thought  of  the  prospect.  I  said  it  was  delightful, 
and  I  daresay  it  was;  but  it  was  all  Dora  to  me.  The  sun 
shone  Dora,  and  the  birds  sang  Dora.  The  south  wind  blew 
Dora,  and  the  wild  flowers  in  the  hedges  were  all  Doras,  to 
a  bud.  My  comfort  is,  Miss  Mills  understood  me.  Miss 
Mills  alone  could  enter  into  my  feelings  thoroughly. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  were  going,  and  to  this  hour  I 
know  as  little  where  we  went.  Perhaps  it  was  near  Guild- 
ford. Perhaps  some  Arabian- night  magician  opened  up 
the  place  for  the  day,  and  shut  it  up  for  ever  when  we  came 
away.  It  was  a  green  spot,  on  a  hill,  carpeted  with  soft 
turf.  There  were  shady  trees,  and  heather,  and  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see,  a  rich  landscape. 

It  was  a  trying  thing  to  find  people  here,  waiting  for  us; 
and  my  jealousy,  even  of  the  ladies,  knew  no  bounds.  But 
all  of  my  own  sex — especially  one  impostor,  three  or  four 
years  my  elder,  with  a  red  whisker,  on  which  he  established 
an  amount  of  presumption  not  to  be  endured — were  my 
mortal  foes. 

We  all  unpacked  our  baskets,  and  employed  ourselves  in 
getting  dinner  ready.  Red  Whisker  pretended  he  could 
make  a  salad  (which  I  don't  believe),  and  obtruded  himself 
on  public  notice.  Some  of  the  young  ladies  washed  the 
lettuces  for  him,  and  sliced  them  under  his  directions.  Dora 
was  among  these.  I  felt  that  fate  had  pitted  me  against  this 
man,  and  one  of  us  must  fall. 

Red  Whisker  made  his  salad  (I  wondered  how  they  could 
eat  it.  Nothing  should  have  induced  me  to  touch  it  !)  and 
voted  himself  into  the  charge  of  the  wine-cellar,  which  he  con- 
structed, being  an  ingenious  beast,  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a 
tree.  By-and-by  I  saw  him,  with  the  majority  of  a  lobster 
on  his  plate,  eating  his  dinner  at  the  feet  of  Dora ! 

I  have  but  an  indistinct  idea  of  what  happened  for  some  time 
after  this  baleful  object  presented  itself  to  my  view.  I  was 
very  merry,  I  know,  but  it  was  hollow  merriment.  I  attached 
myself  to  a  young  creature  in  pink,  with  little  eyes,  and 
flirted  with  her  desperately.  She  received  my  attention 
with  favor;  but  whether  on  my  account  solely,  or  because 
she  had  any  designs  on  Red  Whisker,  I  can't  say.      Dora's 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  479 

health  was  drunk.  When  I  drank  it,  I  affected  to  interrupt 
my  conversation  for  that  purpose,  and  to  resume  it  immedi- 
ately afterwards.  I  caught  Dora's  eye  as  I  bowed  to  her, 
and  I  thought  it  looked  appealing.  But  it  looked  at  me 
over  the  head  of  Red  Whisker  and  I  was  adamant. 

The  young  creature  in  pink  had  a  mother  in  green;  and 
I  rather  think  the  latter  separated  us  from  motives  of  policy. 
Howbeit,  there  was  a  general  breaking  up  of  the  party, 
while  the  remnants  of  the  dinner  were  being  put  away;  and 
I  strolled  off  by  myself  among  the  trees,  in  a  raging  and 
remorseful  state.  I  was  debating  whether  I  should  pretend 
that  I  was  not  well,  and  fly — I  don't  know  where — upon  my 
gallant  gray,  when  Dora  and  Miss  Mills    met  me. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Miss  Mills,  "  you  are  dull." 

I  begged  her  pardon.     Not  at  all. 

"And  Dora,"  said  Miss  Mills,  ''you  are  dull." 

Oh  dear  no  !     Not  in  the  least. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield  and  Dora,"  said  Miss  Mills,  with  an 
almost  venerable  air.  "  Enough  of  this.  Do  not  allow  a 
trivial  misunderstanding  to  wither  the  blossoms  of  spring, 
which,  once  put  forth  and  blighted,  cannot  be  renewed.  I 
speak,"  said  Miss  Mills,  "  from  experience  of  the  past — 
the  remote  irrevocable  past.  The  gushing  fountains  which 
sparkle  in  the  sun,  must  not  be  stopped  in  mere  caprice;  the 
oasis  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  must  not  be  plucked  up  idly." 

I  hardly  knew  what  I  did,  I  was  burning  all  over  to  that 
extraordinary  extent;  but  I  took  Dora's  little  hand  and 
kissed  it — and  she  let  me  !  I  kissed  Miss  Mills's  hand;  and 
we  all  seemed,  to  my  thinking,  to  go  straight  up  to  the 
seventh  heaven. 

We  did  not  come  down  again.  We  staid  up  there  all 
the  evening.  At  first  we  strayed  to  and  fro  among  the  trees: 
I  with  Dora's  shy  arm  drawn  through  mine:  and  Heaven 
knows,  folly  as  it  all  was,  it  would  have  been  a  happy  fate 
to  have  been  struck  immortal  with  those  foolish  feelings, 
and  have  stayed  among  the  trees  for  ever  ! 

But,  much  too  soon,  we  heard  the  others  laughing  and 
talking,  and  calling,  "  Where's  Dora?"  So  we  went  back, 
and  they  wr.nted  Dora  to  sing.  Red  Whisker  would  have 
got  the  guitar-case  out  of  the  carriage,  but  Dora  told  him 
nobody  knew  where  it  was,  but  I.  So  Red  Whisker  was 
done  for  in  a  moment;  and  7got.it,  and  /  unlocked  it,  and 
/  took  the  guitar  out,  and  I  sat  by  her,  and  /  held  her 


48o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

handkerchief  and  gloves,  and  /  drank  in  every  note  of  her 
dear  voice,  and  she  sang  to  me  who  loved  her,  and  all  the 
others  might  applaud  as  much  as  they  liked,  but  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it! 

I  was  intoxicated  with  joy.  I  was  afraid  it  was  too  happy 
to  be  real,  and  that  I  should  wake  in  Buckingham  Street 
presently,  and  hear  Mrs.  Crupp  clinking  the  teacups  in  get- 
ting breakfast  ready.  But  Dora  sang,  and  others  sang,  and 
Miss  Mills  sang — about  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  cav- 
erns of  memory;  as  if  she  were  a  hundred  years  old — and 
the  evening  came  on;  and  we  had  tea,  with  a  kettle  boiling 
gipsy-fashion;  and  I  was  still  as  happy  as  ever. 

I  was  happier  than  ever  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  the 
other  people,  defeated  Red  Whisker  and  all,  went  their 
several  ways,  and  we  went  ours  through  the  still  evening 
and  the  dying  light,  with  sweet  scents  rising  up  around  us. 
Mr.  Spenlow  being  a  little  drowsy  after  the  champagne — 
honor  to  the  soil  that  grew  the  grape,  to  the  grape  that  made 
the  wine,  to  the  sun  that  ripened  it,  and  to  the  merchant 
who  adulterated  it ! — and  being  fast  asleep  in  a  corner  of 
the  carriage,  I  rode  by  the  side,  and  talked  to  Dora.  She 
admired  my  horse  and  patted  him — oh,  what  a  dear  little 
hand  it  looked  upon  a  horse  ! — and  her  shawl  would  not 
keep  right,  and  now  and  then  I  drew  it  round  her  with  my 
arm;  and  I  fancied  that  Jip  began  to  see  how  it  was,  and  to 
understand  that  he  must  make  up  his  mind  to  be  friends 
with  me. 

That  sagacious  Miss  Mills,  too;  that  amiable,  though  quite 
used  up,  recluse;  that  little  patriarch  of  something  less  than 
twenty,  who  had  done  with  the  world,  and  mustn't  on  any 
account  have  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  caverns  of  mem- 
ory awakened;  what  a  kind  thing  she  did  ! 

''  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Miss  Mills,  "  come  to  this  side  of 
the  carriage  a  moment — if  you  can  spare  a  moment.  I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

Behold  me,  on  my  gallant  gray,  bending  at  the  side  of 
Miss  Mills,  with  my  hand  upon  the  carriage-door  ! 

"  Dora  is  coming  to  stay  with  me.  She  is  coming  home 
with  me  the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  you  would  like  to  call, 
I  am  sure  papa  would  be  happy  to  see  you." 

What  could  I  do  but  invoke  a  silent  blessing  on  Miss 
Mills's  head,  and  store  Miss  Mills's  address  in  the  securest 
corner  of  my  memory !     What  could  I  do  but  tell  Miss 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  481 

Mills,  with  grateful  looks  and  fervent  words,  how  much  I 
appreciated  her  good  offices,  and  what  an  inestimable  value 
I  set  upon  her  friendship  ! 

Then  Miss  Mills  benignantly  dismissed  me,  saying,  "  Go 
back  to  Dora  !"  and  I  went;  and  Dora  leaned  out  of  the 
carriage  to  talk  to  me,  and  we  talked  all  the  rest  of  the  way; 
and  I  rode  my  gallant  gray  so  close  to  the  wheel  that  I 
grazed  his  near  fore-leg  against  it,  and  *'  took  the  bark  off," 
as  his  owner  told  me,  **  to  the  tune  of  three  pun'  sivin" — 
which  I  paid,  and  thought  extremely  cheap  for  so  much  joy. 
What  time  Miss  Mills  sat  looking  at  the  moon,  murmuring 
verses  and  recalling,  I  suppose,  the  ancient  days  when  she 
and  earth  had  anything  in  common. 

Norwood  was  many  miles  too  near,  and  we  reached  it 
many  hours  too  soon;  but  Mr.  Spenlow  came  to  himself  a 
little  short  of  it,  and  said,  "  You  must  come  in,  Copper- 
field,  and  rest !"  and  I  consenting,  we  had  sandwiches  and 
wine-and-water.  In  the  light  room,  Dora,  blushing,  looked 
so  lovely,  that  I  could  not  tear  myself  away,  but  sat  there 
staring,  in  a  dream,  until  the  snoring  of  Mr.  Spenlow  in- 
spired me  with  sufficient  consciousness  to  take  my  leave. 
So  we  parted,  I  riding  all  the  way  to  London  with  the  fare- 
well touch  of  Dora's  hand  still  light  on  mine,  recalling  every 
incident  and  word  ten  thousand  times;  lying  down  in  my 
own  bed  at  last,  as  enraptured  a  young  noodle  as  ever  was 
carried  out  of  his  five  wits  by  love. 

When  I  awoke  next  morning,  I  was  resolute  to  declare  my 
passion  to  Dora,  and  know  my  fate.  Happiness  or  misery 
was  now  the  question.  There  was  no  other  question  that  I 
knew  of  in  the  world,  and  only  Dora  could  give  the  answer 
to  it.  I  passed  three  days  in  a  luxury  of  wretchedness,  tor- 
turing myself  by  putting  every  conceivable  variety  of  dis- 
couraging construction  on  all  that  ever  had  taken  place  be- 
tween Dora  and  me.  At  last,  arrayed  for  the  purpose  at  a 
vast  expense,  I  went  to  Miss  Mills's,  fraught  with  a  declara- 
tion. 

How  many  times  I  went  up  and  down  the  street,  and 
round  the  square — painfully  aware  of  being  a  much  better 
answer  to  the  old  riddle  than  the  original  one — before  I 
could  persuade  myself  to  go  up  the  steps  and  knock,  is  no 
matter  now.  Even  when,  at  last,  I  had  knocked,  and  was 
waiting  at  the  door,  I  had  some  flurried  thought  of  asking 
if  that  were  Mr.  Blackboy's  (in  imitation  of  poor  Barkis), 
begging  pardon,  and  retreating.     But  I  kept  my  ground. 


482  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Mills  was  not  at  home.  I  did  not  expect  he  would 
be.  Nobody  wanted  him.  Miss  Mills  was  at  home.  Miss 
Mills  would  do. 

I  was  shown  into  a  room  upstairs,  where  Miss  Mills  and 
Dora  were.  Jip  was  there.  Miss  Mills  was  copying  music 
(I  recollect,  it  was  a  new  song,  called  Affection's  Dirge), 
and  Dora  was  painting  flowers.  What  were  my  feelings, 
when  I  recognized  my  own  flowers;  the  identical  Covent 
Garden  Market  purchase  !  I  cannot  say  that  they  were 
very  like,  or  that  they  particularly  resembled  any  flowers 
that  have  ever  come  under  my  observation;  but  I  knew 
from  the  paper  round  them,  which  was  accurately  copied, 
what  the  composition  was. 

Miss  Mills  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  very  sorry  her 
papa  was  not  at  home:  though  I  thought  we  all  bore  that 
with  fortitude.  Miss  Mills  was  conversational  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then,  laying  down  her  pen  upon  Affection's 
Dirge,  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"I  hope  your  poor  horse  was  not  tired,  when  he  got  home 
at  night,"  said  Dora,  lifting  up  her  beautiful  eyes.  "  It  was 
a  long  way  for  him." 

I  began  to  think  I  would  do  it  to-day. 

"  It  was  a  long  way  for  him^''  said  I,  "  for  he  had  noth- 
ing to  uphold  him  on  the  journey." 

"  Wasn't  he  fed,  poor  thing  ?"  asked  Dora. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"Ye — yes,"  I  said,  "he  was  well  taken  care  of.  I  mean 
he  had  not  the  unutterable  happiness  that  I  had  in  being 
so  near  you." 

Dora  bent  her  head  over  her  drawing,  and  said,  after  a 
little  while — I  had  sat,  in  the  interval,  in  a  burning  fever, 
and  with  my  legs  in  a  very  rigid  state — 

"  You  didn't  seem  to  be  sensible  of  that  happiness  your- 
self, at  one  time  of  the  day." 

I  saw  now  that  I  was  in  for  it,  and  it  must  be  done  on 
the  spot. 

"  You  didn't  care  for  that  happiness  in  the  least,"  said 
Dora,  slightly  raising  her  eyebrows,  and  shaking  her  head, 
"  when  you  were  sitting  by  Miss  Kitt." 

Kitt,  I  should  observe,  was  the  name  of  the  creature  in 
pink,  with  the  little  eyes. 

*'  Though  certainly  I  don't  know  why  you  should,"  said 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  483 

Dora,  "  or  why  you  should  call  it  a  happiness  at  all.  But 
of  course  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  And  I  am  sure  no 
one  doubts  your  being  at  liberty  to  do  whatever  you  like. 
Jip,  you  naughty  boy,  come  here  !" 

I  don't  know  how  I  did  it.  I  did  it  in  a  moment.  I  in- 
tercepted Jip.  I  had  Dora  in  my  arms.  I  was  full  of  elo- 
quence. I  never  stopped  for  a  word.  I  told  her  how  I 
loved  her.  I  told  her  I  should  die  without  her.  I  told  her 
that  I  idolized  and  worshipped  her.  Jip  barked  madly  all 
the  time. 

When  Dora  hung  her  head  and  cried,  and  trembled,  my 
eloquence  increased  so  much  the  more.  If  she  would  like 
me  to  die  for  her,  she  had  but  to  say  the  word,  and  I  was 
ready.  Life  without  Dora's  love  was  not  a  thing  to  have 
on  any  terms.  I  couldn't  bear  it,  and  I  wouldn't.  I  had 
loved  her  every  minute,  day  and  night,  since  I  first  saw  her. 
I  loved  her  at  that  minute  to  distraction.  I  should  always 
love  her,  every  minute,  to  distraction.  Lovers  had  loved 
before,  and  lovers  would  love  again;  but  no  lover  had  ever 
loved,  might,  could,  would,  or  should  ever  love,  as  I  loved 
Dora.  The  more  I  raved,  the  more  Jip  barked.  Each  of 
us,  in  his  own  way,  got  more  mad  every  moment. 

Well,  well !  Dora  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  by-and- 
by,  quiet  enough,  and  Jip  was  lying  in  her  lap,  winking 
peacefully  at  me.  It  was  off  my  mind.  I  was  in  a  state  of 
perfect  rapture.     Dora  and  I  were  engaged. 

I  suppose  we  had  some  notion  that  this  was  to  end  in 
marriage.  We  must  have  had  some,  because  Dora  stipulated 
that  we  were  never  to  be  married  without  her  papa's  con- 
sent. But,  in  our  youthful  ecstasy,  I  don't  think  that  we 
really  looked  before  us  or  behind  us;  or  had  any  aspiration 
beyond  the  ignorant  present.  We  were  to  keep  our  secret 
from  Mr.  Spenlow;  but  I  am  sure  the  idea  never  entered 
my  head,  then,  that  there  was  anything  dishonorable  in  that. 

Miss  Mills  was  more  than  usually  pensive  when  Dora,  go- 
ing to  find  her,  brought  her  back; — I  apprehend,  because 
there  was  a  tendency  in  what  had  passed  to  awaken  the 
slumbering  echoes  in  the  caverns  of  memory.  But  she  gave 
us  her  blessing,  and  the  assurance  of  her  lasting  friendship, 
and  spoke  to  us,  generally,  as  became  a  Voice  from  the 
Cloister. 

What  an  idle  time  it  was  !  What  an  unsubstantial,  happy, 
foolish  time  it  was  ! 


484  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

When  I  measured  Dora's  finger  for  a  ring  that  was  to  be 
made  of  Forget-me-nots,  and  when  the  jeweler,  to  whom  I 
took  the  measure,  found  me  out,  and  laughed  over  his  order- 
book,  and  charged  me  anything  he  liked,  for  the  pretty  little 
toy,  with  its  blue  stones — so  associated  in  my  remembrance 
with  Dora's  hand,  that  yesterday,  when  I  saw  such  another, 
by  chance,  on  the  finger  of  my  own  daughter,  there  was  a 
momentary  stirring  in  my  heart,  like  pain  ! 

When  I  walked  about,  exalted  with  my  secret,  and  full  of 
my  own  interest,  and  felt  the  dignity  of  loving  Dora,  and  of 
being  beloved,  so  much,  that  if  I  had  walked  the  air  I  could 
not  have  been  more  above  the  people  not  so  situated,  who 
were  creeping  on  the  earth  ! 

When  we  had  those  meetings  in  the  garden  of  the  square, 
and  sat  within  the  dingy  summer-house,  so  happy,  that  I 
love  the  London  sparrows  to  this  hour,  for  nothing  else, 
and  see  the  plumage  of  the  tropic  in  their  smoky  feathers  ! 

When  we  had  our  first  great  quarrel  (within  a  week  of 
our  betrothal),  and  when  Dora  sent  me  back  the  ring,  in- 
closed in  a  despairing  cocked-hat  note,  wherein  she  used  the 
terrible  expression  that  "  our  love  had  begun  in  folly  and 
ended  in  madness  !"  which  dreadful  words  occasioned  me 
to  tear  my  hair,  and  cry  that  all  was  over ! 

When,  under  cover  of  the  night,  I  flew  to  Miss  Mills, 
whom  I  saw  by  stealth  in  a  back  kitchen  where  there  was  a 
mangle,  and  implored  Miss  Mills  to  interpose  between  us 
and  avert  insanity.  When  Miss  Mills  undertook  the  office 
and  returned  with  Dora,  exhorting  us,  from  the  pulpit  of  her 
own  bitter  youth,  to  mutual  concession,  and  the  avoidance 
of  the  Desert  of  Sahara  ! 

When  we  cried,  and  made  it  up,  and  were  so  blest  again, 
that  the  back  kitchen,  mangle  and  all,  changed  to  Love's 
own  temple,  where  we  arranged  a  plan  of  correspondence 
through  Miss  Mills,  always  to  comprehend  at  least  one  letter 
on  each  side  every  day  ! 

What  an  idle  time !  What  an  unsubstantial,  happy, 
foolish  time  !  Of  all  the  times  of  mine  that  Time  has  in  his 
grip,  there  is  none  that  in  one  retrospection  I  can  smile  at 
half  so  much,  and  think  of  half  so  tenderly. 


1>AVID  COPPERFIELD.  48$ 

CHAPTER*  XXXIV. 

MY    AUNT    ASTONISHES    ME. 

I  WROTE  to  Agnes  as  soon  as  Dora  and  I  were  engaged. 
I  wrote  her  a  long  letter,  in  which  I  tried  to  make  her  com- 
prehend how  blest  I  was,  and  what  a  darling  Dora  was.  I 
entreated  Agnes  not  to  regard  this  as  a  thoughtless  passion 
which  could  ever  yield  to  any  other,  or  had  the  least  re- 
semblance to  the  boyish  fancies  that  we  used  to  joke  about. 
I  assured  her  that  its  profundity  was  quite  unfathomable, 
and  expressed  my  belief  that  nothing  like  it  had  ever  been 
known. 

Somehow,  as  I  wrote  to  Agnes  on  a  fine  evening  by  my 
open  window,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  clear  calm  eyes 
and  gentle  face  came  stealing  over  me,  it  shed  such  a  peace- 
ful influence  upon  the  hurry  and  agitation  in  which  I  had 
been  living  lately,  and  of  which  my  very  happiness  partook 
in  some  degree,  that  it  soothed  me  into  tears.  I  remember 
that  I  sat  resting  my  head  on  my  hand,  when  the  letter  was 
half  done,  cherishing  a  general  fancy  as  if  Agnes  were  one 
of  the  elements  of  my  natural  home.  As  if,  in  the  retire- 
ment of  the  house  made  almost  sacred  to  me  by  her  pres- 
ence, Dora  and  I  must  be  happier  than  anywhere.  As  if, 
in  love,  joy,  sorrow,  hope,  or  disappointment;  in  all  emo- 
tions; my  heart  turned  naturally  there,  and  found  its  refuge 
and  best  friend. 

Of  Steerforth,  I  said  nothing.  I  only  told  her  there  had 
been  sad  grief  at  Yarmouth,  on  account  of  Em'ly's  flight; 
and  that  on  me  it  had  made  a  double  wound,  by  reason  of 
the  circumstances  attending  it.  I  knew  how  quick  she 
always  was  to  divine  the  truth,  and  that  she  would  never  be 
the  first  to  breath  his  name. 

To  this  letter  I  received  an  answer  by  return  of  post.  As 
I  read  it,  I  seemed  to  hear  Agnes  speaking  to  me.  It  was 
like  her  cordial  voice  in  my  ears.     What  can  I  say  more  ? 

While  I  had  been  away  from  home  lately,  Traddles  had 
called  twice  or  thrice.  Finding  Peggotty  within,  and  being 
informed  by  Peggotty  (who  always  volunteered  that  infor- 
mation to  whomsoever  would  receive  it),  that  she  was  my  old 
nurse,  he  had  established  a  good-humored  acquaintance 
with  her,  and  had  stayed  to  have  a  little  chat  with  her  about 


486  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

me.  So  Peggotty  said;  but  I  am  afraid  the  chat  was  all  on 
her  own  side,  and  of  immoderate  length,  as  she  was  very- 
difficult  indeed  to  stop,  God  bless  her  !  when  she  had  me 
for  her  theme. 

This  reminds  me,  not  only  that  I  expected  Traddles  on  a 
certain  afternoon  of  his  own  appointing,  which  was  now 
come,  but  that  Mrs.  Crupp  had  resigned  everything  apper- 
taining to  her  office  (the  salary  excepted)  until  Peggotty 
should  cease  to  present  herself.  Mrs.  Crupp,  after  holding 
divers  conversations  respecting  Peggotty,  in  a  very  high 
pitched  voice,  on  the  staircase — with  some  invisible  Familiar 
it  would  appear,  for  corporeally  speaking  she  was  quite  alone 
at  those  times — addressed  a  letter  to  me,  developing  her 
views.  Beginning  it  with  that  statement  of  universal  appli- 
cation, which  fitted  every  occurrence  of  her  life,  namely,  that 
she  was  a  mother  herself,  she  went  on  to  inform  me  that  she 
had  once  seen  very  different  days,  but  that  at  all  periods  of 
her  existence  she  had  had  a  constitutional  objection  to  spies, 
intruders,  and  informers.  She  named  no  names,  she  said; 
let  them  the  cap  fitted,  wear  it;  but  spies,  intruders,  and  in- 
formers, especially  in  widder's  weeds  (this  clause  was  under- 
lined), she  had  ever  accustomed  herself  to  look  down  upon. 
If  a  gentleman  was  the  victim  of  spies,  intruders,  and  in- 
formers (but  still  naming  no  names),  that  was  his  own  plea- 
sure. He  had  a  right  to  please  himself;  so  let  him  do.  All 
that  she,  Mrs.  Crupp,  stipulated  for,  was,  that  she  should  not 
be  "  brought  in  contact  "  with  such  persons.  Therefore, 
she  begged  to  be  excused  from  any  further  attendance  on 
the  top  set,  until  things  was  as  they  formerly  was,  and  as  they 
could  be  wished  to  be;  and  further  mentioned  that  her  little 
book  would  be  found  upon  the  breakfast- table  every  Satur- 
day morning,  when  she  requested  immediate  settlement  of 
the  same,  with  the  benevolent  view  of  saving  trouble,  "  and 
an  ill-conwenience  "  to  all  parties. 

After  this,  Mrs.  Crupp  confined  herself  to  making  pitfalls 
on  the  stairs,  principally  with  pitchers,  and  endeavoring  to 
delude  Peggotty  into  breaking  her  legs.  I  found  it  rather 
harassing  to  live  in  this  state  of  siege,  but  was  too  much 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Crupp  to  see  any  way  out  of  it. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  cried  Traddles,  punctually  ap- 
j)earing  at  my  door,  in  spite  of  all  these  obstacles,  "  how  do 
you  do  ?" 

"  My  dear  Traddles/*  said  I,  "  I  am  delighted  to  see  you 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  487 

at  last,  nnd  very  sorry  I  liave  not  been  at  home  before.  But 
I  have  been  so  much  engaged " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Traddles,  "of  course.  Your's 
lives  in  London,  1  think." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

"She — excuse  me — Miss  D.,  you. know,"  said  Traddles, 
coloring  in  his  great  delicacy,  "  lives  in  London  I  beHeve  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.     Near  London." 

"Mine,  perhaps  you  recollect,"  said  Traddles,  with  a 
serious  look,  "  lives  down  in  Devonshire — one  of  ten.  Con- 
sequently, I  am  not  so  much  engaged  as  you — in  tha^  sense." 

"  I  wonder  you  can  bear,"  I  returned,  "  to  see  her  so 
seldom." 

"  Hah  !"  said  Traddles,  thoughtfully.  "  It  does  seem  a 
wonder.  I  suppose  it  is,  Copperfield,  because  there's  no 
help  for  it  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  I  replied,  with  a  smile,  and  not  without  a 
blush.  "  And  because  you  have  so  much  constancy  and 
patience,  Traddles." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Traddles,  considering  about  it,  "  do  I 
strike  you  in  that  way,  Copperfield  ?  Really  I  didn't  know 
that  I  had.  But  she  is  such  an  extraordinarily  dear  girl 
herself,  that  it's  possible  she  may  have  imparted  something 
of  those  virtues  to  me.  Now  you  mention  it,  Copperfield,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  at  all.  I  assure  you  she  is  always  forget- 
ting herself,  and  taking  care  of  the  other  nine." 

"  Is  she  the  eldest  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  Traddles.     "  The  eldest  is  a  Beauty." 

He  saw,  I  suppose,  that  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
simplicity  of  this  reply;  and  added,  with  a  smile  upon  his 
own  ingenuous  face: 

"  Not,  of  course,  but  that  my  Sophy — pretty  name,  Cop- 
perfield, I  always  think  ?" 

"  Very  pretty  !"  said  I. 

"  Not,  of  course,  but  that  Sophy  is  beautiful  too,  in  my 
eyes,  and  would  be  one  of  the  dearest  girls  that  ever  was,  in 
anybody's  eyes  (I  should  think).  But  when  I  say  the  eldest 
is  a  Beauty,  I  mean  she  is  really  a — "  he  seemed  to  be  de- 
scribing clouds  about  himself,  with  both  hands.  "  Splendid, 
you  know,"  said  Traddles,  energetically. 

"Indeed!"  said  I. 

"Oh,  I  assure  you,"  said  Traddles,  "something  very  xin- 
common,    indeed !      Then,    you   know,   being   formed   for 


488'  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

society  and  admiration,  and  not  being  able  to  enjoy  much 
of  it,  in  consequence  of  their  limited  means,  she  naturally 
gets  a  little  irritable  and  exacting,  sometimes.  Sophy  puts 
her  in  good  humor  !" 

"  Is  Sophy  the  youngest  ?"  I  hazarded. 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !"  said  Traddles,  stroking  his  chin.  "The 
two  youngest  are  only  nine  and  ten.     Sophy  educates  'em." 

"  The  second  daughter,  perhaps  ?"   I  hazarded. 

"  No,"  said  Traddles.  "  Sarah's  the  second.  Sarah  has 
something  the  matter  with  her  spine,  poor  girl.  The  malady 
will  wear  out  by-and-by,  the  doctors  say,  but  in  the  mean- 
time she  has  to  lie  down  for  a  twelvemonth.  Sophy  nurses 
her.     Sophy's  the  fourth." 

"  Is  the  mother  living  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Traddles,  "  she  is  alive.  She  is  a  very 
superior  woman,  indeed,  but  the  damp  country  is  not  adapted 
to  her  constitution,  and — in  fact,  she  has  lost  the  use  of  her 
limbs." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  I. 

"  Very  sad,  is  it  not  ?"  returned  Traddles.  "  But  in  a 
merely  domestic  view  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  be,  because 
Sophy  takes  her  place.  She  is  quite  as  much  a  mother  to 
her  mother,  as  she  is  to  the  other  nine." 

I  felt  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  virtues  of  this  young 
lady,  and,  honestly  with  the  view  of  doing  my  best  to  pre- 
vent the  good-nature  of  Traddles  from  being  imposed  upon, 
to  the  detriment  of  their  joint  prospects  in  life,  inquired 
how  Mr.  Micawber  was  ? 

"  He  is  quite  well,  Copperfield,  thank  you,"  said  Traddles. 
"  I  am  not  living  with  him  at  present." 

"  No  r 

"  No.  You  see  the  truth  is,"  said  Traddles,  in  a  whisper, 
"  he  has  changed  his  name  to  Mortimer,  in  consequence  of 
his  temporary  embarrassments;  and  he  don't  come  out  till 
after  dark — and  then  in  spectacles.  There  was  an  execu- 
tion put  into  our  house,  for  rent.  Mrs.  Micawber  was  in 
such  a  dreadful  state  that  I  really  couldn't  resist  giving  my 
name  to  that  second  bill  we  spoke  of  here.  You  may  ima- 
gine how  delightful  it  was  to  my  feelings,  Copperfield,  to 
see  the  matter  settled  with  it,  and  Mrs.  Micawber  recover 
her  spirits." 

"  Hum  !"  said  I. 

"  Not  that  her  happiness  was  of  long  duration,"  pursued 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  489 

Traddles,  "  for  unfortunately,  within  a  week  another  execu- 
tion came  in.  It  broke  up  the  establishment.  I  have  been 
living  in  a  furnished  apartment  since  then,  and  the  Mortimers 
have  been  very  private  indeed.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it 
selfish,  Copperfield,  if  I  mention  that  the  broker  carried  off 
my  little  round  table  with  the  marble  top  and  Sophy's 
flower-pot  and  stand  ?" 

"What  a  hard  thing  !"  I  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"It  was  a — it  was  a  pull,"  said  Traddles,  with  his  usual 
wince  at  that  expression.  "  I  don't  mention  it  reproach- 
fully, however,  but  with  a  motive.  The  fact  is.  Copper- 
field,  I  was  unable  to  repurchase  them  at  the  time  of  their 
seizure;  in  the  first  place,  because  the  broker,  having  an 
idea  that  I  wanted  them,  ran  the  price  up  to  an  extravagant 
extent;  and,  in  the  second  place,  because  I — hadn't  any 
money.  Now,  I  have  kept  my  eye  since,  upon  the  broker's 
shop,"  said  Traddles,  with  a  great  enjoyment  of  his  mystery, 
"  which  is  up  at  the  top  of  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and,  at 
last,  to-day  I  find  them  put  out  for  sale.  I  have  only  notic- 
ed them  from  over  the  way,  because  if  the  broker  saw  me^ 
bless  you,  he'd  ask  any  price  for  them  !  What  has  occurred 
to  me,  having  now  the  money,  is,  that  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
object  to  ask  that  good  nurse  of  yours  to  come  with  me  to 
the  shop — I  can  show  it  her  from  round  the  corner  of  the 
next  street — and  make  the  best  bargain  for  them,  as  if  they 
were  for  herself,  that  she  can  !" 

The  delight  with  which  Traddles  propounded  this  plan  to 
me,  and  the  sense  he  had  of  its  uncommon  artfulness,  are 
among  the  freshest  things  in  my  remembrance. 

I  told  him  that  my  old  nurse  would  be  delighted  to  assist 
him,  and  that  we  would  all  three  take  the  field  together,  but 
on  one  condition.  That  condition  was,  that  he  should 
make  a  solemn  resolution  to  grant  no  more  loans  of  his 
name,  or  anything  else,  to  Mr.  Micawber. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  "  I  have  already 
done  so,  because  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  have  not  only  been 
inconsiderate,  but  that  I  have  been  positively  unjust  to 
Sophy.  My  word  being  passed  to  myself,  there  is  no  longer 
any  apprehension;  but  I  pledge  it  to  you,  too,  with  the 
greatest  readiness.  That  first  unlucky  obligation,  I  have 
paid.  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Micawber  would  have  paid  it  if 
he  could,  but  he  could  not.  One  thing  I  ought  to  mention, 
which  I  like  very  much  in  Mr.   Micawber,  Copperfield.      It 


^^Q  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

refers  to  the  second  obligation,  which  is  not  yet  due.  He  don't 
tell  me  that  it  is  provided  for,  but  he  says  it  will  be.  Now, 
I  think  there  is  something  very  fair  and  honest  about  that  !" 

I  was  unwilling  to  damp  my  good  friend's  confidence,  and 
therefore  assented.  After  a  litttle  further  conversation,  we 
went  round  to  the  chandler's  shop,  to  enlist  Peggotty; 
Traddles  declining  to  pass  the  evening  with  me,  both 
because  he  endured  the  liveliest  apprehensions  that  his  prop- 
erty would  be  bought  by  somebody  else  before  he  could 
repurchase  it,  and  because  it  was  the  evening  he  always 
devoted  to  writing  to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world. 

I  never  shall  forget  him  peeping  round  the  corner  of  the 
street  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  while  Peggotty  was  bar- 
gaining for  the  precious  articles;  or  his  agitation  when  she 
came  slowly  towards  us  after  vainly  offering  a  price,  and 
was  hailed  by  the  relenting  broker,  and  went  back  again. 
The  end  of  the  negotiation  was,  that  she  bought  the  property 
on  tolerably  easy  terms,  and  Traddles  was  transported  with 
pleasure. 

''  I  am  very  mubh  obliged  to  you,  indeed,"  sgid  Traddles, 
on  hearing  it  was  to  be  sent  to  where  he  lived,  that  night. 
"  If  I  might  ask  one  other  favor,  I  hope  you  wouldn't  think 
it  absurd,  Copperfield  .<*" 

I  said  beforehand,  certainly  not. 

"  Then  if  you  would  be  good  enough,"  said  Traddles  to 
Peggotty,  "  to  get  the  flower-pot  now,  I  think  I  should  like 
(it  being  Sophy's,  Copperfield)  to  carry  it  home  myself !" 

Peggotty  was  glad  to  get  it  for  him,  and  he  overwhelmed 
her  with  thanks  and  went  his  way  up  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  carrying  the  flower-pot  affectionately  in  his  arms, 
with  one  of  the  most  delighted  expressions  of  countenance 
I  ever  saw. 

We  then  turned  back  towards  my  chambers.  As  the 
shops  had  charms  for  Peggotty  which  I  never  knew  them 
possess  in  the  same  degree  for  anybody  else,  I  sauntered 
easily  along,  amused  by  her  staring  in  at  the  windows,  and 
waiting  for  her  as  often  as  she  chose.  We  were  thus  a  good 
while  in  getting  to  the  Adelphi. 

On  our  way  up  stairs,  I  called  her  attention  to  the  sudden 
disappearance  of  Mrs.  Crupp's  pitfalls,  and  also  to  tlie  prints 
of  recent  footsteps.  We  were  both  very  much  surprised, 
coming  higher  up,  to  find  my  outer  door  standing  open 
(which  I  had  shut),  ana  to  hear  voices  inside. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  491 

We  looked  at  one  another,  without  knowing  what  to  make 
of  this,  and  went  into  the  sitting-room.  What  was  my  amaze- 
ment to  find,  of  all  people  upon  earth,  my  aunt  there,  and  Mr. 
Dick!  My  aunt  sitting  on  a  quantity  of  luggage,  with  her 
two  birds  before  her,  and  her  cat  on  her  knee,  like  a  female 
Robinson  Crusoe,  drinking  tea.  Mr.  Dick  leaning  thought- 
fully on  a  great  kite,  such  as  we  had  often  been  out  together 
to  fly,  with  more  luggage  piled  about  him! 

"My  dear  aunt!"  cried  I.  ''Why,  what  an  unexpected 
pleasure!" 

We  cordially  embraced;  and  Mr.  Dick  and  I  cordially 
shook  hands;  and  Mrs.  Crupp,  who  was  busy  making  tea, 
and  could  not  be  too  attentive,  cordially  said  she  had  knowed 
well  as  Mr.  CopperfuU  would  have  his  heart  in  his  mouth, 
when  he  sees  his  dear  relations. 

"  Halloa!"  said  my  aunt  to  Peggotty,  who  quailed  before 
her  awful  pres-ence.     *^}iow  Rveyou?" 

"  You  remember  my  aunt,  Peggotty?"*  said  I. 

"  For  the  love  of  goodness,  child,"  exclaimed  my  aunt, 
"  don't  call  the  woman  by  that  South  Sea  Island  name  !  If 
she  married  and  got  rid  of  it,  which  was  the  best  thing  she 
could  do,  why  don't  you  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  change  ? 
What's  your  name  now  P  .?"  said  my  aunt,  as  a  compromise 
for  the  obnoxious  appellation. 

"  Barkis,  ma'am,"  said  Peggotty  with  a  curtsey. 

"  Well!  that's  human,"  said  my  aunt.  "  It  sounds  less  as 
if  you  wanted  a  Missionary.  How  d'ye  do,  Barkis  ?  I 
hope  you're  well  ?" 

Encouraged  by  these  gracious  words,  and  by  my  aunt's 
extending  her  hand,  Barkis  came  forward,  and  took  the  hand, 
and  curtseyed  her  acknowledgments. 

"  We  are  older  than  we  were,  I  see,"  said  my  aunt.  "  We 
have  only  met  each  other  once  before,  you  know.  A  nice 
business  we  made  of 'it  then!     Trot,  my  dear,  another  cup." 

I  handed  it  dutifully  to  my  aunt,  who  was  in  her  usual 
inflexible  state  of  figure;  and  ventured  a  remonstrance  with 
her  on  the  subject  of  her  sitting  on  a  box. 

*'  Let  me  draw  the  sofa  here,  or  the  easy  chair,  aunt," 
said  I.     "  Why  should  you  be  so  uncomfortable  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Trot,"  replied  my  aunt,  "  I  prefer  to  sit 
upon  my  property."  Here  my  aunt  looked  hard  at  Mrs. 
Crupp,  and  observed.  "We  needn't  trouble  you  to  wait, 
ma'am." 


492  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Shall  I  put  a  little  more  tea  into  the  pot  afore  I  go, 
ma'am  ?"  said  Mrs.   Crupp. 

**  No,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  my  aunt. 

"  Would  you  let  me  fetch  another  pat  of  butter,  ma'am  ?'' 
said  Mrs.  Crupp.  *'  Or  would  you  be  persuaded  to  try  a  new 
laid  hegg  ?  or  should  I  brile  a  rasher  ?  Ain't  there  nothing  I 
could  do  for  your  dear  aunt,  Mr.  Copperfull  ?" 

"Nothing,  ma  am,"  returned  my  aunt.  "  I  shall  do  very 
well,  I  thank  you." 

Mrs.  Crupp,  who  had  been  incessantly  smiling  to  express 
sweet  temper,  and  incessantly  holding  her  head  on  one  side, 
to  express  a  general  feebleness  of  constitution,  and  in- 
cessantly rubbing  her  hands,  to  express  a  desire  to  be  of 
service  to  all  deserving  objects,  gradually  smiled  herself, 
one-sided  herself,  and  rubbed  herself,  out  of  the  room. 

"Dick!"  said  my  aunt.  "You  know  what  I  told  you 
about  time-servers  and  wealth-worshipers  }  " 

Mr.  Dick — with  rather  a  scared  look,  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
it — returned  a  hasty  answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Mrs.  Crupp  is  one  of  them,"  said  my  aunt.  "  Barkis, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  look  after  the  tea,  and  let  me  have  another 
cup,  for  I  don't  fancy  that  woman's  pouring-out." 

I  knew  my  aunt  sufficiently  well  to  know  that  she  had 
something  of  importance  on  her  mind,  and  that  there  was 
far  more  matter  in  this  arrival  than  a  stranger  might  have 
supposed.  I  noticed  how  her  eye  lighted  on  me,  when  she 
thought  my  attention  otherwise  occupied;  and  what  a  curious 
process  of  hesitation  appeared  to  be  going  on  within  her, 
while  she  preserved  her  outward  stiffness  and  composure. 
I  began  to  reflect  whether  I  had  done  anything  to  offend 
her;  and  my  conscience  whispered  me  that  I  had  not  yet 
told  her  about  Dora.  Could  it  by  any  means  be  that,  I 
wondered  ! 

As  I  knew  she  would  only  speak  in  her  own  good  time,  I 
sat  down  near  her,  and  spoke  to  the  birds,  and  played  with 
the  cat,  and  was  as  easy  as  I  could  be.  But  1  was  very  far 
from  being  really  easy;  and  I  should  still  have  been  so,  even 
if  Mr.  Dick,  leaning  over  the  great  kite  behind  my  aunt,  had 
not  taken  every  secret  opportunity  of  shaking  his  head 
darkly  at  me,  and  pointing  at  her. 

"Trot,"  said  my  aunt  at  last,  when  she  had  finished  her 
tea,  and  carefully  smoothed  down  her  dress,  and  wiped  her 
lips — "  you  needn't  go,  Barkis  ! — Trot,  have  you  got  to  be 
firm,  and  self-reliant  ?'* 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  493 

"I  hope  so,  aunt." 

"  What  do  you  think  ?"  inquired  Miss  Betsey 

"  I  think  so,  aunt." 

"  Then  why,  my  love,"  said  my  aunt,  looking  earnestly  at 
me,  "  why  do  you  think  I  prefer  to  sit  upon  this  property  of 
mine  to-night  ?" 

I  shook  my  head,  unable  to  guess. 

"  Because,"  said  my  aunt,  "  it's  all  I  have.  Because  I'm 
ruined,  my  dear  !" 

If  the  house,  and  every  one  of  us,  had  tumbled  out  into 
the  river  together,  I  could  hardly  have  received  a  greater 
shock. 

"  Dick  knows  it,"  said  my  aunt,  laying  her  hand  calmly  on 
my  shoulder.  "  I  am  ruined,  my  dear  Trot !  All  I  have  in 
the  world  is  in  this  room,  except  the  cottage;  and  that  I 
have  left  Janet  to  let.  Barkis,  I  want  to  get  a  bed  for  this 
gentleman  to-night.  To  save  expense,  perhaps  you  can 
make  up  something  here  for  myself.  Anything  will  do. 
It's  only  for  to-night.  We'll  talk  about  this,  more,  to-morrow." 

I  was  roused  from  my  amazement,  and  concern  for  her — 
I  am  sure  for  her — by  her  falling  on  my  neck,  for  a  moment, 
and  crying  that  she  only  grieved  for  me.  In  another  mo- 
ment, she  suppressed  this  emotion;  and  said  with  an  aspect 
more  triumphant  than  dejected: 

"  We  must  meet  reverses  boldly,  and  not  suffer  them  to 
frighten  us,  my  dear.  We  must  learn  to  act  the  play  out. 
We  must  live  misfortune  down,  Trot  1" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

DEPRESSION. 

As  soon  as  I  could  recover  my  presence  of  mind,  which 
quite  deserted  me  in  the  first  overpowering  shock  of  my 
aunt's  intelligence,  I  proposed  to  Mr.  Dick  to  come  round 
to  the  chandler's  shop,  and  take  possession  of  the  bed  which 
Mr.  Peggotty  had  lately  vacated.  The  chandler's  shop  be- 
ing in  Hungerford  Market,  and  Hungerford  Market  being  a 
very  different  place  in  those  days,  there  was  a  low  wooden 
colonnade  before  the  door,  (not  very  unlike  that  before  the 
house  where  the  little  man  and  woman  used  to  live,  in  the 
old  weather-glass),  which  pleased  Mr   Dick  mightily.     The 


494  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

glory  of  lodging  over  this  structure  would  have  compen- 
sated him,  I  dare  say,  for  many  inconveniences;  but,  as 
there  were  really  few  to  bear,  beyond  the  compound  of 
flavors  I  have  already  mentioned,  and  perhaps  the  want  of 
a  little  more  elbow-room,  he  was  perfectly  charmed  with 
his  accommodation.  Mrs.  Crupp  had  indignantly  assured 
him  that  there  wasn't  room  to  swing  a  cat  there  ;  but,  as 
Mr.  Dick  justly  observed  to  me,  sitting  down  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  nursing  his  leg,  "  You  know,  Trotwood,  I  don't 
want  to  swing  a  cat.  I  never  do  swing  a  cat.  Therefore, 
what  does  that  signify  to  meV^ 

I  tried  to  ascertain  whether  Mr.  Dick  had  any  under- 
standing of  the  causes  of  this  sudden  and  great  change  in 
my  aunt's  affairs.  As  I  might  have  expected,  he  had  none 
at  all.  The  only  account  he  could  give  of  it,  was  that  my 
aunt  had  said  to  him,  the  day  before  yesterday,  "  Now,  Dick, 
are  you  really  and  truly  the  philosopher  I  take  you  for  ?" 
That  then  he  had  said.  Yes,  he  hoped  so.  That  then  my  aunt 
had  said,  "  Dick,  I  am  ruined."  That  then  he  had  said, 
"  Oh,  indeed  !"  That  then  my  aunt  had  praised  him  highly, 
which  he  was  very  glad  of.  And  that  then  they  had  come 
to  me  and  had  had  bottled  porter  and  sandwiches  on  the 
road. 

Mr.  Dick  was  so  very  complacent,  sitting  on  the  foot  of  the 
fied,  nursing  his  leg,  and  telling  me  this,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open,  and  a  surprised  smile,  that  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  was  pro- 
voked into  explaining  to  him  that  ruin  meant  distress,  want, 
and  starvation;  but,  I  was  soon  bitterly  reproved  for  this 
harshness,  by  seeing  his  face  turn  pale,  and  tears  course 
down  his  lengthened  cheeks,  while  he  fixed  upon  me  a  look  of 
such  unutterable  woe,  that  it  might  have  softened  a  far 
harder  heart  than  mine.  I  took  infinitely  greater  pains  to 
cheer  him  up  again  than  I  had  taken  to  depress  him;  and  I 
soon  understood  (as  I  ought  to  have  known  at  first)  that  he 
had  been  so  confident,  merely  because  of  his  faith  in  the 
wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  women,  and  his  unbounded 
reliance  on  my  intellectual  resources.  The  latter,  I  believe, 
he  considered  a  match  for  any  kind  of  disaster  not  absolutely 
mortal. 

"  What  can  we  do,  Trotwood  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick.  "  There's 
the  Memorial — " 

"  To  be  sure  there  is,"  said  I.  "  But  all  we  can  do  just 
now,  Mr.  Dick,  is  to  keep  a  cheerful  countenance,  and  not 
let  my  aunt  see  that  we  are  thinking  about  it." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  495 

He  assented  to  this  in  the  most  earnest  manner;  and  im- 
plored me,  if  I  should  see  him  wandering  an  inch  out  of 
the  right  course,  to  recall  him  by  some  of  those  superior 
methods  which  were  always  at  my  command.  But  I  regret 
to  state  that  the  fright  I  had  given  him  proved  too  much  for 
his  best  attempts  at  concealment.  All  the  evening  his  eyes 
wandered  to  my  aunt's  face,  with  an  expression  of  the  most 
dismal  apprehension,  as  if  he  saw  her  growing  thin  on  the 
spot.  He  was  conscious  of  this,  and  put  a  constraint  upon 
his  head;  but  his  keeping  that  immovable,  and  sitting  rolling 
his  eyes  like  a  piece  of  machinery,  did  not  mend  the  matter 
at  all.  I  saw  him  look  at  the  loaf  at  supper  (which  hap- 
pened to  be  a  small  one),  as  if  nothing  else  stood  between 
us  and  famine;  and  when  my  aunt  insisted  on  his  making 
his  customary  repast,  I  detected  him  in  the  act  of  pocketing 
fragments  of  his  bread  and  cheese:  I  have  no  doubt  for  the 
purpose  of  reviving  us  with  those  savings,  when  we  should 
have  reached  an  advanced  stage  of  attenuation. 

My  aunt,  on  the  other  hand,  was  in  a  composed  frame  of 
mind,  which  was  a  lesson  to  all  of  us — to  me,  I  am.  sure.  She  was 
extremely  gracious  to  Peggotty,  except  when  I  inadvertently 
called  her  by  that  name  ;  and,  strange  as  I  knew  she  felt  in 
London,  appeared  quite  at  home.  She  was  to  have  my  bed, 
and  I  was  to  lie  in  the  sitting-room,  to  keep  guard  over  her. 
She  made  a  great  point  of  being  so  near  the  river,  in  case  of 
a  conflagration  ;  and  I  suppose  really  did  find  some  satisfac- 
tion in  that  circumstance. 

"  Trot,  my  dear,"  said  my  aunt,  when  she  saw  me  making 
preparations  for  compounding  her  usual  night-draught,  '*No!" 

"  Nothing,  aunt  ?" 

*'  Not  wine,  my  dear.     Ale." 

"  But  there  is  wine  here,  aunt.  And  you  always  have  it 
made  of  wine." 

"  Keep  that,  in  case  of  sickness,"said  my  aunt.  "  We 
mustn't  use  it  carelessly.  Trot.     Ale  for  me.     Half  a  pint." 

I  thought  Mr.  Dick  would  have  fallen  insensible.  My 
aunt  being  resolute,  I  went  out  and  got  the  ale  myself.  As 
it  was  growing  late,  Peggotty  and  Mr.  Dick  took  that  oppor- 
tunity of  repairing  to  the  chandler's  shop  together.  I  parted 
from  him,  poor  fellow,  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  with  his 
great  kite  at  his  back,  a  very  monument  of  human  misery. 

My  aunt  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  when  I  re- 
turned, crimping  the  borders  of  her  nightcap  with  her  fingers. 


490  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  warmed  the  ale  and  made  the  toast  on  the  usual  infallible 
principles.  When  it  was  ready  for  her  she  was  ready  for  it, 
with  her  nightcap  on,  and  the  skirt  of  her  gown  turned  back 
on  her  knees. 

"  My  dear,"  said  my  aunt  after  taking  a  spoonful  of  it ; 
"  it's  a  good  deal  better  than  wine.     Not  half  so  bilious." 

I  suppose  I  looked  doubtful,  for  she  added  : 

*'  Tut,  tut,  child.  If  nothing  worse  than  Ale  happens  ta 
us,  we  are  well  off." 

"  I  should  think  so  myself,  aunt,  I  am  sure,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  then,  why  doni  you  think  so  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Because  you  and  I  are  very  different  people,"  I  returned. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense.  Trot  !"    replied  my  aunt. 

My  aunt  went  on  with  a  quiet  enjoyment,  in  which  there 
was  very  little  affectation,  if  any  ;  drinking  the  warm  ale 
with  a  teaspoon,  and  soaking  her  strips  of  toast  in  it. 

"  Trot,"  said  she,  "  I  don't  care  for  strange  faces  in  gen- 
eral but  I  rather  like  that  Barkis  of  yours,  do  you  know  !" 

"  It  is  better  than  a  hundred  pounds  to  hear  you  say  so,  " 
said  I. 

"  It's  a  most  extraordinary  world,"  observed  my  aunt, 
rubbing  her  nose  ;  "  how  that  woman  ever  got  into  it  with 
that  name,  is  unaccountable  to  me.  It  would  be  much  more 
easy  to  be  born  a  Jackson,  or  something  of  that  sort,  one 
would  think." 

*'  Perhaps  she  thinks  so,  too  ;  it's  not  her  fault,"  said  I. 

*'  I  suppose  not,"  returned  my  aunt,  rather  grudging  the 
isidmission  ;  *'  but  it's  very  aggravating.  However,  she's 
Barkis  now.  That's  some  comfort.  Barkis  is  uncommonly 
fond  of  you,  Trot." 

"  There  is  nothing  she  would  leave  undone  to  prove  it," 
said  I. 

"Nothing,  I  believe,"  returned  my  aunt.  "Here  the 
poor  fool  has  been  begging  and  praying  about  handing  over 
some  of  her  money — because  she  has  got  too  much  of  it !  A 
simpleton  !" 

My  aunt's  tears  of  pleasure  were  positively  trickling  down 
into  the  warm  ale. 

"  She's  the  most  ridiculous  creature  that  ever  was  born," 
said  my  aunt.  "  I  knew,  from  the  first  moment  when  I  saw 
her  with  that  poor  dead  blessed  baby  of  a  mother  of  yours, 
that  she  was  the  most  ridiculous  of  mortals.  But  there  are 
good  points  in  Barkis  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  497 

Affecting  to  laugh,  she  got  an  opportunity  of  putting  her 
hand  to  her  eyes.  Having  availed  herself  of  it^  she  resumed 
her  toast  and  her  discourse  together, 

"Ah!  Mercy  upon  us!"  sighed  my  aunt.  "  I  know  all 
about  it,  Trot !  Barkis  and  myself  had  quite  a  gossip  while 
you  were  out  with  Dick.  I  know  all  about  it.  I  don't  know 
where  these  wretched  girls  expect  to  go  to,  for  my  part.  I 
wonder  they  don't  knock  out  their  brains  against — against 
mantelpieces,"  said  my  aunt ;  an  idea  which  was  probably 
suggested  to  her  by  her  contemplation  of  mine. 

"  Poor  Em'ly  !"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  poor,"  returned  my  aunt. 
"  She  should  have  thought  of  that  before  she  caused  so 
much  misery*  Give  me  a  kiss.  Trot.  I  am  sorry  for  your 
early  experience." 

As  I  bent  forward,  she  put  her  tumbler  on  my  knee  to  de- 
tain me,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  Trot,  Trot  !  And  so  you  fancy  yourself  in  love  \ 
Do  you  ?" 

"  Fancy,  aunt  V  I  exclaimed,  as  red  as  I  could  be.  "  I 
adore  her  with  my  whole  soul  !" 

"  Dora,  indeed  !"  returned  my  aunt.  And  you  mean  to 
say  the  little  thing  is  very  fascinating,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  replied,  "  no  one  can  form  the  least 
idea  what  she  is  !" 

"  Ah  !     And  not  silly  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Silly,  aunt !" 

I  seriously  believed  it  had  never  once  entered  my 
head  for  a  single  moment,  to  consider  whether  she  was  or 
not.  I  resented  the  idea,  of  course;  but  I  was  in  a  manner 
struck  by  it,  as  a  new  one  altogether. 

"  Not  light-headed  .<*"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Light-headed,  aunt  !"  I  could  only  repeat  this  daring 
speculation  with  the  same  kind  of  feelings  with  which  I  had 
repeated  the  preceding  question. 

"  Well,  well  !"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  only  ask.  I  don't  de- 
preciate her.  Poor  little  couple  !  And  so  you  think  you 
were  formed  for  one  another,  and  are  to  go  through  a  party- 
supper-table  kind  of  life,  like  two  pretty  pieces  of  confec- 
tionery, do  you.  Trot  ?" 

She  asked  me  this  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  gentle  air, 
half  playful  and  half  sorrowful,  that  I  was  quite  touched. 
"We  are  young  and  inexperienced,  aunt,  I  know,"  I  replied; 


498  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"and  I  dare  say  we  say  and  think  a  good  deal  that  is  rather 
fooHsh.  But'we  love  one  another  truly,  I  am  sure.  If  I 
thought  Dora  could  ever  love  anybody  else,  or  cease  to  love 
me;  or  that  I  could  ever  love  anybody  else,  or  cease  to  love 
her;  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do — go  out  of  my  mind,  I 
think!" 

"  Ah,  Trot!"  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head,  and  smiling 
gravely;  "blind,  blind,  blind  !" 

"  Some  one  that  I  know,  Trot,"  my  aunt  pursued,  after  a 
pause,  "  though  of  a  very  pliant  disposition,  has  an  earnest- 
ness of  affection  in  him  that  reminds  me  of  poor  Baby. 
Earnestness  is  what  that  Somebody  must  look  for,  to  sus- 
tain him  and  improve  him,  Trot.  Deep,  downright,  faithful 
earnestness." 

"  If  you  only  knew  the  earnestness  of  Dora,  aunt !"  I 
cried. 

"Oh,  Trot  !"  she  said  again;  "blind,  blind  !"  and  with- 
out knowing  why,  I  felt  a  vague,  unhappy  loss  or  want  of 
something  overshadow  me  like  a  cloud. 

"  However,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  don't  want  to  put  two 
young  creatures  out  of  conceit  with  themselves,  or  to  make 
them  unhappy;  so,  though  it  is  a  girl  and  boy  attachment, 
and  girl  and  boy  attachments  very  often — mind  !  I  don't 
say  always  !  come  to  nothing,  still  we'll  be  serious  about 
it,  and  hope  for  a  prosperous  issue  one  of  these  days. 
There's  time  enough  for  it  to  come  to  anything  !" 

This  was  not  upon  the  whole  very  comforting  to  a  raptu- 
rous lover;  but  I  was  glad  to  have  my  aunt  in  my  confi- 
dence, and  I  was  mindful  of  her  being  fatigued.  So  I 
thanked  her  ardently  for  this  mark  of  her  affection,  and  for 
all  her  other  kindnesses  towards  me;  and  after  a  tender 
good  night,  she  took  her  nightcap  into  my  bedroom. 

How  miserable  I  was,  when  I  lay  down  !  How  I  thought 
and  thought  about  my  being  poor,  in  Mr.  Spenlow's  eyes; 
about  my  not  being  what  I  thought  I  was,  when  I  proposed 
to  Dora;  about  the  chivalrous  necessity  of  telling  Dora 
what  my  worldly  condition  was,  and  releasing  her  from  her 
engagement  if  she  thought  fit;  about  how  I  should  contrive 
to  live,  during  the  long  term  of  my  articles,  when  I  was 
earning  nothing;  about  doing  something  to  assist  my  aunt, 
and  seeing  no  way  of  doing  anything;  about  coming  down 
'■.o  have  no  money  in  my  pocket,  and  to  wear  a  shabby  coat, 
Liid  to  be  able  to  carry  Dora  no  little  presents,  and  to  ride 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  499 

no  gallant  gtays,  and  to  show  myself  in  no  agreeable  light  ! 
Sordid  and  selfish  as  I  knew  it  was,  and  as  I  tortured  my- 
self by  knowing  that  it  was,  to  let  my  mind  run  on  my  own 
distress  so  much,  I  was  so  devoted  to  Dora  that  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  knew  that  it  was  base  in  me  not  to  think  more  of 
my  aunt,  and  less  of  myself;  but,  so  far,  selfishness  was  in- 
separable from  Dora,  and  I  could  not  put  Dora  on  one  side 
for  any  mortal  creature.  How  exceedingly  miserable  I  was, 
that  night  ! 

As  to  sleep,  I  had  dreams  of  poverty  in  all  sorts  of  shapes, 
but  I  seemed  to  dream  without  the  previous  ceremony  of 
going  to  sleep.  Now  I  was  ragged,  wanting  to  sell  Dora 
matches,  six  bundles  for  a  halfpenny;  now  I  was  at  the 
office  in  a  nightgown  and  boots,  remonstrated  with  by  Mr. 
Spenlow  on  appearing  before  the  clients  in  that  airy  attire; 
now  I  was  hungrily  picking  up  crumbs  that  fell  from  old 
Tiffey's  daily  biscuit,  regularly  eaten  when  St.  Paul's  struck 
one;  now  I  was  hopelessly  endeavoring  to  get  a  license  to 
marry  Dora,  having  nothing  but  one  of  Uriah  Heep's  gloves 
to  offer  in  exchange,  which  the  whole  Commons  rejected; 
and  still,  more  or  less  conscious  of  my  own  room,  I  was 
always  tossing  about  like  a  distressed  ship  in  a  sea  of  bed- 
clothes. 

My  aunt  was  restless,  too,  for  I  frequently  heard  her  walk- 
ing to  and  fro.  Two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  the 
night,  attired  in  a  long  flannel  wrapper  in  which  she  looked 
some  seven  feet  high,  she  appeared,  like  a  disturbed  ghost, 
in  my  room,  and  came  to  the  side  of  the  sofa  on  which  I  lay. 
On  the  first  occasion  I  started  up  in  alarm,  to  learn  that  she 
inferred  from  a  particular  light  in  the  sky,  that  Westminster 
Abbey  was  on  fire;  and  to  be  consulted  in  reference  to  the 
probability  of  its  igniting  Buckingham  Street,  in  case  the 
wind  changed.  Lying  still,  after  that,  I  found  that  she  sat 
down  near  me,  whispering  to  herself,  "Poor  boy!"  And 
then  it  made  me  twenty  times  more  wretched,  to  know  how 
unselfishly  mindful  she  was  of  me,  and  how  selfishly  mindful 
I  was  of  myself. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  a  night  so  long  to  me,  could 
be  short  to  anybody  else.  This  consideration  set  me  think- 
ing, and  thinking  of  an  imaginary  party  where  people  were 
ilancing  the  hours  away,  until  that  became  a  dream  too,  and 
I  heard  the  music  incessantly  playing  one  tune,  and  saw 
Dora  incessantly  dancing  one  dance,  without  taking  the  least 


50O  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

notice  of  me.  The  man  who  had  been  playing  the  harp  all 
night,  was  trying  in  vain  to  cover  it  with  an  ordinary  sized 
nightcap,  when  I  awoke;  or,  I  should  rather  say,  when  I  left 
off  trying  to  sleep,  and  saw  the  sun  shining  in  through  the 
window  at  last. 

There  was  an  old  Roman  bath  in  those  days  at  the  bottom 
of  one  of  the  streets  out  of  the  Strand — it  may  be  there 
still — in  which  I  had  many  a  cold  plunge.  Dressing  myself 
as  quietly  as  I  could,  and  leaving  Peggotty  to  look  after  my 
aunt,  I  tumbled  head  foremost  into  it,  and  then  went  for  a 
walk  to  Hampstead.  I  had  a  hope  that  this  brisk  treatment 
might  freshen  my  wits  a  little;  and  I  think  it  did  them  good, 
for  I  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  first  step  I  ought 
to  take  was,  to  try  if  my  articles  could  be  canceled  and  the 
premium  recovered.  I  got  some  breakfast  on  the  Heath, 
and  walked  back  to  Doctors'  Commons,  along  the  watered 
roads  and  through  a  pleasant  smell  of  summer  flowers,  grow- 
ing in  gardens  and  carried  into  town  on  hucksters'  heads, 
intent  on  this  first  effort  to  meet  our  altered  circum- 
stances. 

I  arrived  at  the  office  so  soon,  after  all,  that  I  had  half  an 
hour's  loitering  about  the  Commons,  before  old  Tiffey,  who 
was  always  first,  appeared  with  his  key.  Then  I  sat  down 
in  my  shady  corner,  looking  up  at  the  sunlight  on  the  oppo- 
site chimney-pots,  and  thinking  about  Dora;  until  Mr.  Spen- 
low  came  in  crisp  and  curly. 

"  How  are  you,  Copperfield  ?"  said  he.     "  Fine  morning!" 

"  Beautiful  morning,  sir,"  said  I.  '^  Could  I  say  a  word  to 
you  before  you  go  into  Court  ?" 

"  By  all  means,"  said  he.     "  Come  into  my  room." 

I  followed  him  into  his  room,  and  he  began  putting  on  his 
gown,  and  touching  himself  up  before  a  little  glass  he  had, 
hanging  inside  a  closet  door. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  I,  "  that  I  have  some  rather  dis- 
heartening intelligence  from  my  aunt." 

"No!"  said  he.     "  Dear  me!     Not  paralysis,  I  hope  ?" 

"  It  has  no  reference  to  her  health,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  She 
has  met  with  some  heavy  losses.  In  fact,  she  has  very  little 
left,  indeed." 

"  You  as-tound  me,  Copperfield!"  cried  Mr.  Spenlow! 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Indeed,  sir,"  said  I,  "her  affairs  are 
so  changed,  that  I  wish  to  ask  you  whether  it  would  be  pos- 
sible— at  a  sacrifice  on   our  .part   of  some  portion  of  the 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  501 

premium,  of  course,"  I  put  in  this  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment, warned  by  the  blank  expression  of  his  face — "  to 
cancel  my  articles  ?" 

What  it  cost  me  to  make  this  proposal,  nobody  knows. 
It  was  like  asking,  as  a  favor,  to  be  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion from  Dora. 

"  To  cancel  your  articles,  Copperfield  ?     Cancel  ?'* 

I  explained  with  tolerable  firmness,  that  I  really  did  not 
know  where  my  means  of  subsistence  were  to  come  from, 
unless  I  could  earn  them  for  myself.  I  had  no  fear  for  the 
future,  I  said — and  I  laid  great  emphasis  on  that,  as  if  to 
imply  that  I  should  still  be  decidedly  eligible  for  a  son-in- 
law  one  of  these  days — but,  for  the  present,  I  was  thrown 
upon  my  own  resources. 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  hear  this,  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Spenlow.  *'  Extremely  sorry.  It  is  not  usual  to  cancel  ar- 
ticles for  any  such  reason.  It  is  not  a  professional  course 
of  proceeding.  It  is  not  a  convenient  precedent  at  all.  Far 
from  it.     At  the  same  time" — • 

"You  are  very  good,  sir,"  I  murmured,  anticipating  a 
concession. 

"  Not  at  all.  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "At 
the  same  time,  I  was  going  to  say,  if  it  had  been  my  lot  to 
have  my  hands  unfettered — if  I  had  not  a  partner — Mr. 
Jorkins" — 

My  hopes  were  dashed  in  a  moment,  but  I  made  another 
effort. 

"  Do  you  think,  sir,"  said  I,  "  if  I  were  to  mention  it  to 
Mr.  Jorkins — " 

Mr.  Spenlow  shook  his  head  discouragingly.  "  Heaven 
forbid,  Copperfield,"  he  replied,  "that  I  should  do  any  man 
an  injustice  :  still  less,  Mr.  Jorkins.  But  I  know  my  part- 
ner, Copperfield.  Mr.  Jorkins  is  no^  a  man  to  respond  to  a 
proposition  of  this  peculiar  nature.  Mr.  Jorkins  is  very  dif- 
ficult to  move  from  the  beaten  track.  You  know  what 
he  is!" 

I  am  sure  I  knew  nothing  about  him,  except  that  he  had 
originally  been  alone  in  the  business,  and  now  lived  by  him- 
self in  a  house  near  Montagu  Square,  which  was  fearfully  in 
want  of  painting  ;  that  he  came  very  late  of  a  day,  and  went 
away  very  early  ;  that  he  never  appeared  to  be  consulted 
about  anything  ;  and  that  he  had  a  dingy  little  black-hole  of 
his  own  up-stairs,  where  no  business  was  ever  done,  and 


502  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

where  there  was  a  yellow  old  cartridge-paper  pad  upon  his 
desk,  unsoiled  by  ink,  and  reported  to  be  twenty  years  of 
age. 

"  Would  you  object  to  my  mentioning  it  to  him,  sir  ?"  I 
asked. 

"By  no  means,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  "But  I  have  some 
experience  of  Mr.  Jorkins,  Copperfield.  I  wish  it  were  other- 
wise, for  I  should  be  happy  to  meet  your  views  in  any  re- 
spect. I  cannot  have  the  least  objection  to  your  mention- 
ing it  to  Mr.  Jorkins,  Copperfield,  if  you  think  it  worth 
while." 

Availing  myself  of  this  permission,  which  was  given  with 
a  warm  shake  of  the  hand,  I  sat  thinking  about  Dora,  and 
looking  at  the  sunlight  stealing  from  the  chimney-pots  down 
the  wall  of  the  opposite  house,  until  Mr.  Jorkins  came.  I 
then  went  up  to  Mr.  Jorkins's  room,  and  evidently  aston- 
ished Mr.  Jorkins  very  much  by  making  my  appearance 
there. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Jorkins.  "  Come 
in!" 

I  went  in,  and  sat  down  ;  and  stated  my  case  to  Mr.  Jor- 
kins pretty  much  as  I  had  stated  it  to  Mr.  Spenlow.  Mr. 
Jorkins  was  by  no  means  the  awful  creature  one  might  have 
expected,  but  a  large,  mild,  smooth-faced  man  of  sixty,  who 
took  so  much  snuff  that  there  was  a  tradition  in  the  Com- 
mons that  he  lived  principally  on  that  stimulant,  having  lit- 
tle room  in  his  system  for  any  other  article  of  diet. 

"  You  have  mentioned  this  to  Mr.  Spenlow,  I  suppose  V 
said  Mr.  Jorkins ;  when  he  had  heard  me,  very  restlessly,  to 
an  end. 

I  answered  Yes,  and  told  him  that  Mr,  Spenlow  had  in- 
troduced his  name. 

"  He  said  I  should  object  ?"  asked  Mr.  Jorkins. 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Mr.  Spenlow  had  considered 
it  probable. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  can't  advance  your 
object,"  said  Mr.  Jorkins,  nervously.  "  The  fact  is — but  I 
have  an  appointment  at  the  Bank,  if  you'll  have  the  good- 
ness to  excuse  me." 

With  that  he  rose  in  a  great  hurry,  and  was  going  out  of 
the  room,  when  I  made  bold  to  say  that  I  feared,  then,  there 
was  no  way  of  arranging  the  matter. 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Jorkins,  stopping  at  the  door  to  shake 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  503 

his  head.  "Oh,  no!  I  object,  you  know,"  which  he  said 
very  rapidly,  and  went  out.  "You  must  be  aware,  Mr. 
Copperfield,"  he  added,  looking  restlessly  in  at  the  door 
again,  "  if  Mr.  Spenlow  objects " 

"  Personally,  he  does  not  object,  sir,"  said  I. 

"Oh!  Personally  !"repeated  Mr.  Jorkins,  in  an  impatient 
manner.  "  I  assure  you  there's  an  objection,  Mr.  Copperfield. 
Hopeless  !  What  you  wish  to  be  done,  can't  be  done.  I — I 
r-eally  havj  got  an  appointment  at  the  Bank."  With  that 
he  fairly  ran  away  ;  and,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  it 
was  three  days  before  he  showed  himself  in  the  Commons 
again. 

Being  very  anxious  to  leave  no  stone  unturned,  I  waited 
until  Mr.  Spenlow  came  in,  and  then  described  what  had 
passed,  giving  him  to  understand  that  I  was  not  hopeless  of 
his  being  able  to  soften  the  adamantine  Jorkins,  if  he  would 
undertake  that  task. 

"  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Spenlow,  with  a  sagacious 
smile,  "  you  have  not  known  my  partner,  Mr.  Jorkins,  as 
long  as  I  have.  Nothing  is  farther  from  my  thoughts  than 
to  attribute  any  degree  of  artifice  to  Mr.  Jorkins.  But  Mr. 
Jorkins  has  a  way  of  stating  his  objections  which  often  de- 
ceives people.  No,  Copperfield  !"  shaking  his  head.  "Mr. 
Jorkins  is  not  to  be  moved,  believe  me  !" 

I  was  completely  bewildered  between  Mr.  Spenlow  and 
Mr.  Jorkins,  as  to  which  of  them  really  was  the  objecting 
partner;  but  I  saw  with  sufKcient  clearness  that  there  was 
obduracy  somewhere  in  the  firm,  and  that  the  recovery  of 
my  aunt's  thousand  pounds  was  out  of  the  question.  In  a 
state  of  despondency,  which  I  remember  with  anything  but 
satisfaction,  for  I  know  it  still  had  too  much  reference  to 
myself  (though  always  in  connexion  with  Dora),  I  left  the 
office,  and  went  homeward. 

I  was  trying  to  familiarize  my  mind  with  the  worst,  and  to 
present  to  myself  the  arrangements  we  should  have  to  make 
for  the  future  in  their  sternest  aspect,  when  a  hackney 
chariot  coming  after  me,  and  stopping  at  my  very  feet,  oc- 
casioned me  to  look  up.  A  fair  hand  was  stretched  forth  to 
me  from  the  window;  and  the  face  I  had  never  seen  with- 
out a  feeling  of  serenity  and  happiness,  from  the  moment 
when  it  first  turned  back  on  the  old  oak  staircase  with  the 
great  broad  balustrade,  and  when  I  associated  its  softened 
beauty  with  the  stained  glass  window  in  the  church,  was 
smiling  on  me. 


504  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Agnes  !"  I  joyfully  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  my  dear  Agnes, 
of  all  people  in  the  world,  what  a  pleasure  to  see  you  !" 

"  Is  it,  indeed  ?"  she  said  in  her  cordial  voice. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  so  much  !"  said  I.  "  It's  such  a 
lightening  of  my  heart,  only  to  look  at  you  !  If  I  had  had 
a  conjuror's  cap,  there  is  no  one  I  should  have  wished  for 
but  you  !" 

"  What  ?"  returned  Agnes. 

"  Well  !  perhaps  Dora,  first,"  I  admitted  with  a  blush. 

"  Certainly,  Dora  first,  I  hope,"  said  Agnes,  laughing. 

"  But  you  next !"  said  I.     "  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

She  was  going  to  my  rooms  to  see  my  aunt.  The  day  be- 
ing very  fine,  she  was  glad  to  come  out  of  the  chariot,  which 
smelt  (I  had  my  head  in  it  all  this  time)  like  a  stable  put 
under  a  cucumber-frame.  I  dismissed  the  coachman,  and 
she  took  my  arm,  and  we  walked  on  together.  She  was  like 
Hope  embodied,  to  me.  How  different  I  felt  in  one  short 
minute,  having  Agnes  at  my  side  ! 

My  aunt  had  written  her  one  of  the  odd  abrupt  notes — 
very  little  longer  than  a  bank  note — to  which  her  epistolary 
efforts  were  usually  limited.  She  had  stated  therein  that 
she  had  fallen  into  adversity,  and  was  leaving  Dover  for 
good,  but  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  and  was  so  well 
that  nobody  need  be  uncomfortable  about  her.  Agnes  had 
come  to  London  to  see  my  aunt,  between  whom  and  herself 
there  had  been  a  mutual  liking  these  many  years;  indeed,  it 
dated  from  the  time  of  my  taking  up  my  residence  in  Mr. 
Wickfield's  house.  She  was  not  alone,  she  said.  Her  papa 
was  with  her — and  Uriah  Heep. 

"  And  now  they  are  partners,"  said  I.     "  Confound  him  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Agnes.  "  They  have  some  business  here; 
and  I  took  advantage  of  their  coming,  to  come  too.  You 
must  not  think  my  visit  all  friendly  and  disinterested,  Trot- 
wood,  for — I  am  afraid  I  may  be  cruelly  prejudiced — I  do 
not  like  to  let  papa  go  away  alone,  with  him." 

**  Does  he  exercise  the  same  influence  over  Mr.  Wickfield 
still,  Agnes  ?" 

Agnes  shook  her  head.  "  There  is  such  a  change  at  home," 
said  she,  "that  you  would  scarcely  know  the  dear  old  house. 
They  live  with  us  now." 

"  They  ?"  said  I. 

"  Mr.  Heep  and  his  mother.  He  sleeps  in  your  old  room," 
said  Agnes,  looking  up  into  my  face. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  505 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  ordering  of  his  dreams,"  said  I.  "  He 
wouldn't  sleep  there  long." 

"  I  keep  my  own  little  room,"  said  Agnes,  "  wliere  I  used 
to  learn  my  lessons.  How  the  time  goes  !  You  remember? 
The  little  paneled  room  that  opens  from  the  drawing-room?" 

''  Remember,  Agnes  ?  When  I  saw  you,  for  the  first 
time,  coming  out  at  the  door,  with  your  quaint  little  basket 
of  keys  hanging  at  your  side  ?" 

"  It's  just  the  same,"  said  Agnes,  smiling.  "  I'm  glad  you 
think  of  it  so  pleasantly.     We  were  very  happy." 

"  We  were  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  I  keep  that  room  to  myself  still ;  but  I  cannot  always 
desert  Mrs.  Heep,  you  know.  And  so,"  said  Agnes  quietly, 
"  I  feel  obliged  to  bear  her  company,  when  I  might  prefer 
to  be  alone.  But  I  have  no  other  reason  to  complain  of  her. 
If  she  tires  me,  sometimes,  by  her  praises  of  her  son,  it  is 
only  natural  in  a  mother.     He  is  a  very  good  son  to  her." 

I  looked  at  Agnes  when  she  said  these  words,  without  de- 
tecting in  her  any  consciousness  of  Uriah's  design.  Her 
mild  but  earnest  eyes  met  mine  with  their  own  beautiful 
frankness,  and  there  was  no  change  in  her  gentle  face. 

"  The  chief  evil  of  their  presence  in  the  house,"  said 
Agnes,  "is  that  I  cannot  be  as  near  papa  as  I  could  wish — 
Uriah  Heep  being  so  much  between  us — and  cannot  watch 
over  him,  if  that  is  not  too  bold  a  thing  to  say,  as  closely  as 
I  would.  But,  if 'any  fraud  or  treachery  is  practising 
against  him,  I  hope  that  simple  love  and  truth  will  be 
stronger,  in  the  end.  I  hope  that  real  love  and  truth  are 
stronger  in  the  end  than  any  evil  or  misfortune  in  the  world." 

A  certain  bright  smile,  which  I  never  saw  on  any  other 
face,  died  away,  even  while  I  thought  how  good  it  was,  and 
how  familiar  it  had  once  been  to  me  ;  and  she  asked  me, 
with  a  quick  change  of  expression  (we  were  drawing  very 
near  my  street),  if  I  knew  how  the  reverse  in  my  aunt's  cir- 
cumstances had  been  brought  about.  On  my  replying  no, 
she  had  not  told  me  yet,  Agnes  became  thoughtful,  and  I 
fancied  I  felt  her  arm  tremble  in  mine. 

We  found  my  aunt  alone,  in  a  state  of  some  excitement. 
A  difference  of  opinion  had  arisen  between  herself  and  Mrs. 
Crupp,  on  an  abstract  question  (the  propriety  of  chambers 
being  inhabited  by  the  gentler  sex);  and  my  aunt,  utterly 
indifferent  to  spasms  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  had  cut 
the  dispute  short,  by  informing  that  lady  that  she  smelt  of 


5o6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

my  brandy,  and  that  she  would  trouble  her  to  walk  out. 
Both  of  these  expressions  Mrs.  Crupp  considered  actionable, 
and  had  expressed  her  intention  of  bringing  before  a  "  Brit- 
ish Judy" — meaning,  it  was  supposed,  the  bulwark  of  our 
national  liberties. 

My  aunt,  however,  having  had  time  to  cool,  while  Peg- 
gotty  was  out  showing  Mr.  Dick  the  soldiers  at  the  Horse 
Guards — and  being,  besides,  greatly  pleased  to  see  Agnes — 
rather  plumed  herself  on  the  affair  than  otherwise,  and  re- 
ceived us  with  unimpaired  good  humor.  When  Agnes  laid 
her  bonnet  on  the  table,  and  sat  down  beside  her,  I  could 
not  but  think,  looking  on  her  mild  eyes  and  her  radiant  fore- 
head, how  natural  it  seemed  to  have  her  there;  how  trustful- 
ly, although  she  was  so  young  and  inexperienced,  my  aunt 
confided  in  her;  how  strong  she  was,  indeed,  in  simple  love 
and  truth. 

We  began  to  talk  about  my  aunt's  losses,  and  I  told  them 
what  I  had  tried  to  do  that  morning. 

"Which  was  injudicious.  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  "but  well 
meant.  You  are  a  generous  boy — I  suppose  I  must  say 
young  man,  now — and  I  am  proud  of  you,  my  dear.  So  far, 
so  good.  Now,  Trot  and  Agnes,  let  us  look  the  case  of 
Betsey  Trotwood  in  the  face,  and  see  how  it  stands." 

I  observed  Agnes  turn  pale,  as  she  looked  very  attentively 
at  my  aunt.  My  aunt,  patting  her  cat^ooked  very  atten- 
tively at  Agnes. 

"  Betsey  Trotwood,"  said  my  aunt,  who  had  always  kept 
her  money  matters  to  herself: — "I  don't  mean  your  sister, 
Trot,  my  dear,  but  myself — had  a  certain  property.  It 
don't  matter  how  much;  enough  to  live  on.  More;  for  she 
had  saved  a  little,  and  added  to  it.  Betsey  funded  her  prop- 
erty for  some  time,  and  then,  by  the  advice  of  her  man  of 
business,  laid  it  out  on  landed  security.  That  did  very 
well,  and  returned  very  good  interest,  till  Betsey  was  paid 
off.  I  am  talking  of  Betsey  as  if  she  was  a  man-of-war. 
Well!  Then,  Betsey  had  to  look  about  her,  for  a  new  invest- 
ment. She  thought  she  was  wiser  now  than  her  man  of 
business,  who  was  not  such  a  good  man  of  business  by  this 
time  as  he  used  to  be — I  am  alluding  to  your  father,  Agnes 
— and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  lay  it  out  for  herself. 
So  she  took  her  pigs,"  said  my  aunt,  "to  a  foreign  market; 
and  a  very  bad  market  it  turned  out  to  be.  First,  she  lost 
in  the  mining  way,  and  then  she  lost  in  the  diving  way — 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  507 

fishing  up  treasure,  or  some  such  Tom  Tidier  nonsense,"  ex- 
plained my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose;  "and  then  she  lost  in 
the  mining  way  again,  and  last  of  all,  to  set  the  thing  entirely 
to  rights,  she  lost  in  the  banking  way.  1  don't  know  what 
the  Bank  shares  were  worth  for  a  little  while,"  said  my  aunt; 
"  cent,  per  cent,  was  the  lowest  of  it,  I  believe  ;  but  the  Bank 
was  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  and  tumbled  into  space, 
for  what  I  know;  anyhow,  it  fell  to  pieces,  and  never  will 
and  never  can  pay  sixpence;  and  Betsey's  sixpences  were  all 
there,  and  there's  an  end  of  them.  Least  said,  soonest 
mended!" 

My  aunt  concluded  this  philosophical  summary,  by  fixing 
her  eyes  with  a  kind  of  triumph  on  Agnes,  whose  color  was 
gradually  returning. 

"  Dear  Miss  Trotwood,  is  that  all  the  history  ?"  said  Agnes. 

"  I  hope  it's  enough,  child,"  said  my  aunt.  ."  If  there  had 
been  more  money  to  lose,  it  wouldn't  have  been  all,  I  dare 
say.  Betsey  would  have  contrived  to  throw  that  after  the 
rest,  and  make  another  chapter,  I  have  little  doubt.  But, 
there  was  no  more  money,  and  there's  no  more  story." 

Agnes  had  listened  at  first  with  suspended  breath.  Her 
color  still  came  and  went,  but  she  breathed  more  freely.  I 
thought  I  knew  why.  I  thought  she  had  had  some  fear  that 
her  unhappy  father  might  be  in  some  way  to  blame  for  what 
had  happened.     My  aunt  took  her  hand  in  hers,  and  laughed. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  repeated  my  aunt.  "  Why  yes,  that's  all 
except,  *  And  she  lived  happy  ever  afterwards.*  Perhaps  I 
may  add  that  of  Betsey  yet,  one  of  these  days.  Now,  Agnes, 
you  have  a  wise  head.  So  have  you.  Trot,  in  some  things, 
though  I  can't  compliment  you  always;"  and  here  my  aunt 
shook  her  own  at  me,  with  an  energy  peculiar  to  herself. 
"  What's  to  be  done  ?  Here  s  the  cottage,  taking  onetime 
with  another,  will  produce,  say  seventy  pounds  a  year.  I 
think  we  may  safely  put  it  down  at  that.  Well ! — That's  all 
we've  got,"  said  my  aunt;  with  whom  it  was  an  idiosyncrasy, 
as  it  is  with  some  horses,  to  stop  very  short  when  she  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  fair  way  of  going  on  for  a  long  while. 

"  Then,"  said  my  aunt,  after  a  rest,  "  there's  Dick.  He's 
good  for  a  hundred  a  year,  but  of  course  that  must  be  ex- 
pended on  himself.  I  would  sooner  send  him  away,  though 
I  know  I  am  the  only  person  who  appreciates  him,  than 
have  him,  and  not  spend  his  money  on  himself.  How  can 
Trot  and  I  do  best,  upon  our  means  ?  What  do  you  say, 
Agnes  ?" 


5o5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  /  say,  aunt,"  I  interposed,  "  that  I  must  do  something  !" 

"  Go  for  a  soldier,  do  you  mean  ?  "  returned  my  aunt, 
alarmed,  "  or  go  to  sea  ?  I  won't  hear  of  it.  You  are  to  be 
a  proctor.  We're  not  going  to  have  any  knockings  on  the 
head  in  this  family,  if  you  please,  sir." 

I  was  about  to  explain  that  I  was  not  desirous  of  introduc- 
ing that  mode  of  provision  into  the  family,  when  Agnes  in- 
quired if  my  rooms  were  held  for  any  long  term  ? 

"  You  come  to  the  point,  my  dear,"  said  my  aunt.  "  They 
are  not  to  be  got  rid  of  for  six  months  at  least,  unless  they 
could  be  underlet,  and  that  I  don't  believe.  The  last  man 
died  here.  Five  people  out  of  six  would  die — of  course — of 
that  woman  in  nankeen  with  the  flannel  petticoat.  I  have  a 
little  ready  money;  and  I  agree  with  you,  the  best  thing  we 
can  do,  is,  to  live  the  term  out  here,  and  get  Dick  a  bed- 
room hard  by." 

I  thought  it  my  duty  to  hint  at  the  discomfort  my  aunt 
would  sustain,  from  living  in  a  continual  state  of  guerrilla 
warfare  with  Mrs.  Crupp;  but  she  disposed  of  that  objec- 
tion summarily  by  declaring,  that,  on  the  first  demonstration 
of  hostilities,  she  was  prepared  to  astonish  Mrs.  Crupp  for  the 
whole  remainder  of  her  natural  life. 

*•  I  have  been  thinking,  Trotwood,"  said  Agnes,  diffidently, 
**  that  if  you  had  time — " 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time,  Agnes.  I  am  always  disen- 
gaged after  four  or  five  o'clock,  and  I  have  time  early  in  the 
morning.  In  one  way  and  another,"  said  I,  conscious  of 
reddening  a  little  as  I  thought  of  the  hours  and  hours  I  had 
devoted  to  fagging  about  town,  and  to  and  fro  upon  the 
Norwood  Road,  "  I  have  abundance  of  time." 

"  I  know  you  would  not  mind,"  said  Agnes,  coming  to  me, 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  so  full  of  sweet  and  hopeful 
consideration  that  I  hear  it  now,  "  the  duties  of  a  secretary." 

*'  Mind,  my  dear  Agnes  ?" 

"  Because,"  continued  Agnes,  "  Dr.  Strong  has  acted  on 
his  intention  of  retiring,  and  has  come  to  live  in  London; 
and  he  asked  papa,  I  know,  if  he  could  recommend  him  one. 
Don't  you  think  he  would  rather  have  his  favorite  old  pupil 
near  him,  than  anybody  else  ?" 

"  Dear  Agnes  !"  said  I.  "  What  should  I  do  without  you! 
You  are  always  my  good  angel.  I  told  you  so.  I  never 
think  of  you  in  any  other  light." 

Agnes  answered  with  her  pleasant  laugh,  that   one  good 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  509 

angel  (meaning  Dora)  was  enough;  and  went  on  to  remind 
me  that  the  Doctor  had  been  used  to  occupy  himself  in  his 
study  early  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening — and  that  pro- 
bably my  leisure  would  suit  his  requirements  very  well.  I  was 
scarcely  more  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  earning  ray 
own  bread,  than  with  the  hope  of  earning  it  under  my 
old  master;  in  short,  acting  on  the  advice  of  Agnes,  I 
sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Doctor,  stating  my 
object,  and  appointing  to  call  on  him  next  day  at  ten  in  the 
forenoon.  This  I  addressed  to  Highgate — for  in  that  place, 
so  memorable  to  me,  he  lived — and  went  out  and  posted, 
myself,  without  losing  a  minute. 

Wherever  Agnes  was,  some  agreeable  token  of  her  noise- 
less presence  seemed  inseparable  from  the  place.  When  I 
came  back,  I  found  my  aunt's  birds  hanging,  just  as  they 
had  hung  so  long  in  the  parlor  window  of  the  cottage;  and  my 
easy  chair  imitating  my  aunt's  much  easier  chair  in  its  po- 
sition at  the  open  window;  and  even  the  round  green  fan, 
which  my  aunt  had  brought  away  with  her,  screwed  on  to 
the  window-sill.  I  knew  who  had  done  all  this,  by  its  seem- 
ing to  have  quietly  done  itself;  and  I  should  have  known 
in  a  moment  who  had  arranged  my  neglected  books  in  the 
old  order  of  my  school  days,  even  if  I  had  supposed  Agnes 
to  be  miles  away,  instead  of  seeing  her  busy  with  them, 
and  smiling  at  the  disorder   into  which  they   had  fallen. 

My  aunt  was  quite  gracious  on  the  subject  of  the  Thames 
(it  really  did  look  very  well  with  the  sun  upon  it,  though 
not  like  the  sea  before  the  cottage),  but  she  could  not  relent 
towards  the  London  smoke,  which,  she  said,  "  peppered 
everything."  A  complete  revolution,  in  which  Peggotty 
bore  a  prominent  part,  was  being  effected  in  every  corner 
of  my  rooms,  in  regard  to  this  pepper;  and  I  was  looking 
on,  thinking  how  little  even  Peggotty  seemed  to  do  with  a 
good  deal  of  bustle,  and  how  much  Agnes  did  without  any 
bustle  at  all,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door. 

"I  think,"  said  Agnes,  turning  pale,  "  it's  papa.  He 
promised  me  that  he  would  come." 

I  opened  the  door,  and  admitted,  not  only  Mr.  Wickfield, 
but  Uriah  Heep.  I  had  not  seen  Mr.  Wickfield  for  some 
time.  I  was  prepared  for  a  great  change  in  him,  after  what 
I  had  heard  from  Agnes,  but  his  appearance  shocked  me. 

It  was  not  that  he  looked  many  years  older,  though  still 
dressed  with  the  old  scrupulous  cleanliness;  or  that  there  was 


510  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

an  unwholesome  ruddiness  upon  his  face;  or  that  his  eyes  were 
full  and  bloodshot;  or  that  there  was  a  nervous  trembling  in 
his  hand,  the  cause  of  which  I  knew,  and  had  seen  at  work. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  lost  his  good  looks,  or  his  old  bear- 
ing of  a  gentleman — for  that  he  had  not — but  the  thing 
that  struck  me  most,  was,  that  with  the  evidences  of  his 
native  superiority  still  upon  him,  he  should  submit  himself 
to  that  crawling  impersonation  of  meanness,  Uriah  Heep. 
The  reversal  of  the  two  natures,  in  their  relative  positions, 
Uriah's  of  power  and  Mr.  Wickfield's  of  dependence,  was 
a  sight  more  painful  to  me  than  I  can  express.  If  I  had 
seen  an  Ape  taking  command  of  a  Man,  I  should  hardly 
have  thought  it  a  more  degrading  spectacle. 

He  appeared  to  be  only  too  conscious  of  it  himself. 
When  he  came  in,  he  stood  still;  and  with  his  head 
bowed,  as  if  he  felt  it.  This  was  only  for  a  moment;  for 
Agnes  softly  said  to  him,  "  Papa  !  Here  is  Miss  Trotwood, 
whom  you  have  not  seen  for  a  long  while  !"  and  then  he  ap- 
proached, and  constrainedly  gave  my  aunt  his  hand,  and 
shook  hands  more  cordially  with  me.  In  the  moment's 
pause  I  speak  of,  I  saw  Uriah's  countenance  form  itself  into 
a  most  ill-favored  smile.  Agnes  saw  it  too,  I  think,  for  she 
shrank  from  him. 

What  my  aunt  saw,  or  did  not  see,  I  defy  the  science  of 
physiognomy  to  have  made  out,  without  her  own  consent. 
I  believe  there  never  was  anybody  with  such  an  imperturbable 
countenance  when  she  chose.  Her  face  might  have  been  a 
dead  wall  on  the  occasion  in  question,  for  any  light  it  threw 
upon  her  thoughts;  until  she  broke  silence  with  her  usual 
abruptness. 

"Well,  Wickfield  !"  said  my  aunt;  and  he  looked  up  at 
her  for  the  first  time.  "  I  have  been  telling  your  daughter 
how  well  I  have  been  disposing  of  my  money  for  myself, 
because  I  couldn't  trust  it  to  you,  as  you  were  growing  rusty 
in  business  matters.  We  have  been  taking  counsel  together, 
and  getting  on  very  well,  all  things  considered.  Agnes  is 
worth  the  whole  firm,  in  my  opinion." 

"  If  I  may  umbly  make  the  remark,"  said  Uriah  Heep, 
with  a  writhe,  "I  fully  agree  with  Miss  Betsey  Trot- 
wood, and  should  be  only  loo  appy  if  Miss  Agnes  was  a 
partner." 

"  You're  a  partner,  yourself,  you  know,"  returned  my 
aunt,  "  and  that's  about  enough  for  you,  I  expect.  How  do 
you  find  yourself,  sir  .?" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  511 

In  acknowledgment  of  this  question,  addressed  to  him 
with  extraordinary  curtness,  Mr.  Heep,  uncomfortably 
clutching  the  blue  bag  he  carried,  replied  that  he  was  pretty 
well,  he  thanked  my  aunt,  and  he  hoped  she  was  the 
same. 

"And  you.  Master — I  should  say  Mister  Copperfield," 
pursued  Uriah.  "  I  hope  I  see  you  well!  I  am  rejoiced  to 
see  you.  Mister  Copperfield,  even  under  present  circum- 
stances." I  believed  that:  for  he  seemed  to  relish  them 
very  much.  "  Present  circumstances  is  not  what  your  friends 
would  wish  for  you,  Mister  Copperfield,  but  it  isn't  money 
makes  the  man:  it's — I  am  really  unequal  with  my  umble 
powers  to  express  what  it  is,"  said  Uriah,  with  a  fawning  jerk, 
"  but  it  isn't  money." 

Here  he  shook  hands  with  me:  not  in  the  common  way, 
but  standing  at  a  good  distance  from  me,  and  lifting  my 
hand  up  and  down  like  a  pump-handle,  that  he  was  a  little 
afraid  of. 

"  And  how  do  you  think  we  are  looking,  Master  Copper- 
field, — I  should  say  Mister,"  fawned  Uriah.  "  Don't  you 
find  Mr.  Wickfield  blooming,  sir  ?  Years  don't  tell  much  in 
our  firm.  Master  Copperfield,  except  in  raising  up  the  umble, 
namely,  mother  and  self — and  in  developing,"  he  added,  as 
an  after-thought,"  the  beautiful,  namely,  Miss  Agnes." 

He  jerked  himself  about  after  this  compliment,  in  such 
an  intolerable  manner,  that  my  aunt,  who  had  sat  looking 
straight  at  him,  lost  all  patience. 

"  Deuce  take  the  man!"  said  my  aunt,  sternly,  "  what's  he 
about  ?     Don't  be  galvanic,  sir!" 

"I  ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Trotwood,"  returned  Uriah; 
"  I'm  aware  you're  nervous." 

"  Go  along  with  you,  sir!"  said  my  aunt,  anything  but  ap- 
peased. "  Don't  presume  to  say  so!  I  am  nothing  of  the 
sort.  If  you're  an  eel,  sir,  conduct  yourself  like  one.  If 
you're  a  man,  control  your  limbs,  sir!  Good  God!"  said 
my  aunt,  with  great  indignation,  *'  I  am  not  going  to  be  ser- 
pentined and  corkscrewed  out  of  my  senses!" 

Mr.  Heep  was  rather  abashed,  as  most  people  might  have 
been,  by  this  explosion;  which  derived  great  additional  force 
from  the  indignant  manner  in  which  my  aunt  afterwards 
moved  in  her  chair,  and  shook  her  head  as  if  she  were  making 
snaps  or  bounces  at  him.  But  he  said  to  me,  aside,  in  a 
meek  voice: 


512  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  I  am  well  aware,  Master  Copperfield,  that  Miss  Trot- 
wood,  though  an  excellent  lady,  has  a  quick  temper  (indeed 
I  think  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her,  when  I  was  a 
numble  clerk,  before  you  did,  Mr.  Copperfield),  and  it's  only 
natural,  I'm  sure,  that  it  should  be  made  quicker  by  present 
circumstances.  The  wonder  is  that  it  isn't  much  worse! 
I  only  called  to  say  that  if  there  was  anything  we  could  do, 
in  present  circumstances,  mother  or  self,  or  Wickfield  and 
Heep,  we  should  be  really  glad.  I  may  go  so  far  ?"  said 
Uriah,  with  a  sickly  smile  at  his  partner. 

"  Uriah  Hccp,"  said  Wickfield,  in  a  monotonous  forced 
way,  "  is  activ ;  in  business,  Trotwood.  What  he  says,  I 
quite  concur  in.  You  know  I  had  an  old  interest  in  you. 
Apart  from  that,  what  Uriah  says  I  quite  concur  in." 

"  Oh,  what  a  reward  it  is,"  said  Uriah,  drawing  up  one 
leg,  at  the  risk  of  bringing  down  upon  himself  another  visi- 
tation from  my  aunt,  "  to  be  so  trusted  in!  But  I  hope  I  am 
able  to  do  something  to  relieve  him  from  the  fatigues  of 
business,  Master  Copperfield!" 

"  Uriah  Heep  is  a  great  relief  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield 
in  the  same  dull  voice.  "  It  is  a  load  off  my  mind,  Trot- 
wood, to  have  such  a  partner." 

The  red  fox  made  him  say  all  this,  I  knew,  to  exhibit  him 
to  me  in  the  light  he  had  indicated  on  the  night  when  he 
poisoned  my  rest.  I  saw  the  same  ill-favored  smile  upon  his 
face  again,  and  saw  how  he  watched  me. 

•'  You  are  not  going,  papa  ?"  said  Agnes,  anxiously.  "  Wil\ 
you  not  walk  back  with  Trotwood  and  me  ?" 

He  would  have  looked  to  Uriah,  I  believe,  before  replying, 
if  that  worthy  had  not  anticipated  him. 

*'I  am  bespoke  myself,"  said  Uriah,  "  on  business;  other- 
wise I  should  have  been  appy  to  have  kept  with  my  friends. 
But  I  leave  my  partner  to  represent  the  firm.  Miss  Agnes, 
ever  yours!  I  wish  you  good-day.  Master  Copperfield,  and 
leave  my  umble  respects  for  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood." 

With  these  words  he  retired,  kissing  his  great  hand,  and 
leering  at  us  like  a  mask. 

We  sat  there  talking  about  our  pleasant  old  Canterbury 
days,  an  hour  or  two.  Mr.  Wickfield,  left  to  Agnes,  soon 
became  more  like  his  former  self;  though  there  was  a  settled 
depression  upon  him,  which  he  never  shook  off.  For  all 
that  he  brightened;  and  had  an  evident  pleasure  in  hearing 
us  recall  the  little  incidents  of  our  old  life,  many  of  which 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  513 

he  remembered  very  well.  He  said  it  was  like  those  times, 
to  be  alone  with  Agnes  and  me.  again;  and  he  wished  to 
Heaven  they  had  never  changed.  I  am  sure  there  was  an 
influence  in  the  placid  face  of  Agnes,  and  in  the  very  touch 
of  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  that  did  wonders  for  him. 

My  aunt  (who  was  busy  nearly  all  this  while  with  Peg- 
gotty,  in  the  inner  room)  would  not  accompany  us  to  the 
place  where  they  were  staying,  but  insisted  on  my  going; 
and  I  went.  We  dined  together.  After  dinner,  Agnes  sat 
beside  him,  as  of  old,  and  poured  out  his  wine.  He  took 
what  she  gave  him,  and  no  more — like  a  child — and  we  all 
three  sat  together  at  a  window  as  the  evening  gathered  in. 
When  it  was  almost  dark,  he  lay  down  on  a  sofa,  Agnes  pil- 
lowing his  head  and  bending  over  him  a  little  while;  and 
when  she  came  back  to  the  window,  it  was  not  so  dark  but 
I  could  see  tears  glittering  in  her  eyes. 

I  pray  Heaven  that  I  may  never  forget  the  dear  girl  in  her 
love  and  truth,  at  that  time  of  my  life;  for  if  I  should,  I 
must  be  drawing  near  the  end,  and  then  I  would  desire  to 
remember  her  best!  She  filled  my  heart  with  such  good 
resolutions,  strengthened  my  weakness  so,  by  her  example, 
so  directed — I  know  not  how,  she  was  too  modest  and  gen- 
tle to  advise  me  in  many  words — the  wandering  ardor  and 
unsettled  purpose  within  me,  that  all  the  little  good  I  have 
done,  and  all  the  harm  I  have  forborne,  I  solemnly  believe 
I  may  refer  to  her. 

And  how  she  spake  to  me  of  Dora,  sitting  at  the  window 
in  the  dark;  listening  to  my  praises  of  her;  praised  again; 
and  round  the  little  fairy-figure  shed  some  glimpses  of  her 
own  pure  light,  that  made  it  yet  more  precious  and  more  in- 
nocent to  me!  Oh,  Agnes,  sister  of  my  boyhood,  if  I  had 
known  then,  what  I  knew  long  afterwards! — 

There  was  a  beggar  in  the  street,  when  I  went  down;  and 
as  I  turned  my  head  towards  the  window,  thinking  of  her 
calm,  seraphic  eyes,  he  made  me  start  by  muttering,  as  if  he 
were  an  echo  of  the  morning; 

"Blind!  Blind!  Blind!" 


514  David  copperfield. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ENTHUSIASM. 

I  BEGAN  the  next  day  with  another  dive  into  the  Roman 
bath,  and  then  started  for  Highgate.  I  was  not  dispirited 
now.  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  shabby  coat,  and  had  no 
yearnings  after  gallant  grays.  My  whole  manner  of  think- 
ing of  our  late  misfortune  was  changed.  What  I  had  to  do, 
was  to  show  my  aunt  that  her  past  goodness  to  me  had  not 
been  thrown  away  on  an  insensible,  ungrateful  object.  What 
1  had  to  do,  was,  to  turn  the  painful  discipline  of  my  younger 
days  to  account,  by  going  to  work  with  a  resolute  and  steady 
heart.  What  I  had  to  do,  was,  to  take  my  woodman's  ax 
in  my  hand,  and  clear  my  own  way  through  the  forest  of 
difficulties  by  cutting  down  the  trees  until  I  came  to  Dora. 
And  I  went  on  at  a  mighty  rate,  as  if  it  could  be  done  by 
walking. 

When  I  found  myself  on  the  familiar  Highgate  road,  pur- 
suing such  a  different  errand  from  that  old  one  of  pleas- 
ure, with  whith  it  was  associated,  it  seemed  as  if  a  complete 
change  had  come  on  my  whole  life.  But  that  did  not  dis- 
courage me.  With  the  new  life,  came  new  purpose,  new  in- 
tention. Great  was  the  labor;  priceless  the  reward.  Dora 
was  the  reward,  and  Dora  must  be  won. 

I  got  into  such  a  transport,  that  I  felt  quite  sorry  my  coat 
was  not  a  little  shabby  already.  I  wanted  to  be  cutting  at 
those  trees  in  the  forest  of  difficulty,  under  circumstances 
that  should  prove  my  strength.  I  had  a  good  mind  to  ask 
an  old  man,  in  wire  spectacles,  who  was  breaking  stones 
upon  the  road,  to  lend  me  his  hammer  for  a  little  while,  and 
let  me  begin  to  beat  a  path  to  Dora  out  of  granite.  I  stim- 
ulated myself  into  such  a  heat,  and  got  so  out  of  breath, 
that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  earning  I  don't  know  how  much. 
In  this  state,  I  went  into  a  cottage  that  I  saw  was  to  let,  and 
examined  it  narrowly, — for  I  felt  it  necessary  to  be  practi- 
cal. It  would  do  for  me  and  Dora  admirably:  with  a  little 
front  garden  for  Jip  to  run  about  in,  and  bark  at  the  trades- 
people through  the  railings,  and  a  capital  room  up-stairs  for 
my  aunt.  I  came  out  again,  hotter  and  faster  than  ever, 
and  dashed  up  to  Highgate,  at  such  a  rate  that  I  was  there 
^n  hour  too  early;  and,  though  I  had  not  been,  should  have 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  5,5 

been  obliged  to  stroll  about  to  cool  myself,  before  I  was  at 
all  presentable. 

My  first  care,  after  putting  myself  under  this  necessary 
course  of  preparation,  was  to  find  the  Doctor's  house.  It 
was  not  in  that  part  of  Highgate  where  Mrs.  Steerforth 
lived,  but  quite  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  town. 
When  I  made  this  discovery,  I  went  back,  in  an  attraction  I 
could  not  resist,  to  a  lane  by  Mrs.  Steerforth's,  and  looked 
over  the  corner  of  the  garden  wall.  His  room  was  shut  up 
close.  The  conservatory  doors  were  standing  open,  and 
Rosa  Dartle  was  walking,  bareheaded,  with  a  quick  impetu- 
ous step,  up  and  down  a  gravel  walk  on  one  side  of  the 
lav/n.  She  gave  me  the  idea  of  some  fierce  thing,  that  was 
dragging  the  length  of  its  chain  to  and  fro  upon  a  beaten 
track,  and  wearing  its  heart  out. 

I  came  softly  away  from  my  place  of  observation^  and 
avoiding  that  part  of  the  neighborhood,  and,  wishing  I  had 
not  gone  near  it,  strolled  about  until  it  was  ten  o'clock. 
The  church  with  the  slender  spire,  that  stands  on  the  top  of 
the  hill  now,  was  not  there  then  to  tell  me  the  time.  An  old 
red-brick  mansion,  used  as  a  school,  was  in  its  place;  and  a 
fine  old  house  it  must  have  been  to  go  to  school  at,  as  I  re- 
collect it. 

When  I  approached  the  Doctor's  cottage — a  pretty  old 
place,  on  which  he  seemed  to  have  expended  some  money,  if 
I  might  judge  from  the  embellishments  and  repairs  that  had 
the  look  of  being  just  completed — I  saw  him  walking  in  the 
garden  at  the  side,  gaiters  and  all,  as  if  he  had  never  left  off 
walking  since  the  days  of  my  pupilage.  He  had  his  old  com- 
panions about  him,  too;  for  there  were  plenty  of  high  trees 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  two  or  three  rooks  were  on  the 
grass  looking  after  him,  as  if  they  had  been  written  to  about 
him  by  the  Canterbury  rooks,  and  were  observing  him 
closely  in  consequence. 

Knowing  the  utter  hopelessness  of  attracting  his  attention 
from  that  distance,  I  made  bold  to  open  the  gate,  and  walk 
after  him,  so  as  to  meet  him  when  he  should  turn  round. 
When  he  did,  and  came  towards  me,  he  looked  at  me 
thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments,  evidently  without  thinking 
about  me  at  all;  and  then  his  benevolent  face  expressed  ex- 
traordinary pleasure,  and  he  took  me  by  both  hands. 

''Why,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  the  Doctor;  "you  are 
a  man!     How  do  you  do?     I  am  delighted  to  see  you.     My 


5^6 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


dear  Copperfield,  how  very  much  you  have  improved!  You 
are  quite — yes — dear  me!" 

i  hoped  he  was  well,  and  Mrs.  Strong  too. 

"Oh  dear,  yes!"  said  the  Doctor;  "  Annie's  quite  well, 
and  she'll  be  delighted  to  see  you.  You  were  always  her 
favorite.  She  said  so,  last  night,  when  I  showed  her  your 
letter.  And — yes  to  be  sure — you  recollect  Mr.  Jack  Mal- 
don,  Copperfield!" 

"  Perfectly,  sir." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Doctor.  "To  be  sure.  He's 
pretty  well,  too." 

"  Has  he  come  home,  sir?"  I  inquired. 

"  From  India?"  said  the  Doctor  "  Yes.  Mr.  Jack  Mal- 
don  couldn't  bear  the  climate,  my  dear.  Mrs.  Markleham 
— you  have  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Markleham?" 

Forgotten  the  Old  Soldier!     And  in  that  short  time! 

"Mrs.  Markleham,"  said  the  Doctor,  " was  quite  vexed 
about  him,  poor  thing  ;  so  we  have  got  him  at  home  again; 
and  we  have  bought  him  a  little  Patent  place,  which  agrees 
with  him  much  better." 

I  knew  enough  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  to  suspect  from  this 
account  that  it  was  a  place  where  there  was  not  much  to  do, 
and  which  was  pretty  well  paid.  The  Doctor,  walking  up 
and  down  with  his  hands  on  my  shoulder,  and  his  kind  face 
turned  encouragingly  to  mine,  went  on: 

"  Now,  my  dear  Copperfield,  in  reference  to  this  pro- 
posal of  yours.  It's  gratifying  and  agreeable  to  me,  I  am 
sure;  but  don't  you  think  you  could  do  better  ?  You 
achieved  distinction,  you  know,  when  you  were  with  us. 
You  are  qualified  for  many  good  things.  You  have  laid  a 
foundation  that  any  edifice  may  be  raised  upon;  and  is  it 
not  a  pity  that  you  should  devote  the  spring  time  of  your 
life  to  such  a  poor  pursuit  as  I  can  offer  ?" 

I  became  very  glowing  again,  and,  expressing  myself  in  a 
rhapsodical  style,  I  am  afraid,  urged  my  request  strongly; 
reminding  the  Doctor  that  I  had  already  a  profession. 

"  Well,  well,"  returned  the  Doctor,  "  that's  true.  Cer- 
tainly, your  havinr^  a  profession,  and  being  actually  engaged 
in  studying  it,  makes  a  difference.  But,  my  good  young 
friend,  what's  seventy  pounds  a-year  ?" 

"  It  doubles  our  income,  Doctor  Strong,"  said  I. 

"  Dear  me  !"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  To  think  of  that ! 
Not  that  I  mean  to  say  it's  rigidly  limited  to  seventy  pounds 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


Si7 


a  year,  because  I  have  always  contemplated  making  any 
young  friend  I  might  thus  employ,  a  present  too.  Un- 
doubtedly," said  the  Doctor,  still  walking  me  up  and  down 
with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  *'  I  have  always  taken  an  an- 
nual present  into  account." 

*'  My  dear  tutor,"  said  I  (now,  really,  without  any  non- 
sense), "  to  whom  I  owe  more  obligations  already  than  I 
ever  can  acknowledge — " 

"  No,  no,"  interposed  the  Doctor.     "  Pardon  me  !" 

"  If  you  will  take  such  time  as  I  have,  and  that  is  my 
mornings  and  evenings,  and  can  think  it  worth  seventy 
pounds  a  year,  you  will  do  me  such  a  service  as  I  cannot 
express." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  the  Doctor,  innocently.  "  To  think 
that  so  little  should  go  for  so  much  !  Dear,  dear  !  And 
when  you  can  do  better,  you  will  ?  On  your  word,  now  ? " 
said  the  Doctor, — which  he  had  always  made  a  very  grave 
appeal  to  the  honor  of  us  boys. 

"  On  my  word,  sir !"  I  returned,  answering  in  our  old 
school  manner. 

"  Then  be  it  so  !"  said  the  Doctor,  clapping  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  still  keeping  his  hand  there,  as  we  still  walked 
up  and  down. 

"  And  I  shall  be  twenty  times  happier,  sir,"  said  I,  with 
a  little — I  hope  innocent — flattery,  "  if  my  employment  is 
to  be  on  the  Dictionary." 

The  Doctor  stopped,  smilingly  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder 
again,  and  exclaimed,  with  a  triumph  most  delightful  to  be- 
hold, as  if  I  had  penetrated  to  the  profoundest  depths  of 
mortal  sagacity.  "  My  dear  young  friend,  you  have  hit  it. 
It  IS  the  Dictionary  !" 

How  could  it  be  anything  else  !  His  pockets  were  as  full 
of  it  as  his  head.  It  was  sticking  out  of  him  in  all  direc- 
tions. He  told  me  that  since  his  retirement  from  scholastic 
life,  he  had  been  advancing  with  it  wonderfully;  and  that 
nothing  could  suit  him  better  than  the  proposed  arrange- 
ments for  morning  and  evening  work,  as  it  was  his  custom 
to  walk  about  in  the  day-time  with  his  considering  cap  on. 
His  papers  were  in  a  little  confusion,  in  consequence  of  Mr. 
Jack  Maldon  having  lately  proffered  his  occasional  services 
as  an  amanuensis,  and  not  being  accustomed  to  that  occu- 
pation; but  we  should  soon  put  right  what  was  amiss,  and 
go  on  swimmingly.     Afterwards,  when  we  were  fairly  at  bur 


5i8  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

work,  I  found  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  efforts  more  troublesome 
to  me  than  I  had  expected,  as  he  had  not  confined  himself 
to  making  numerous  mistakes,  but  had  sketched  so  many 
soldiers'  and  ladies'  heads,  over  the  Doctor's  manuscript, 
that  I  often  became  involved  in  labyrinths  of  obscurity. 

The  Doctor  was  quite  happy  in  the  prospect  of  our  going 
to  work  together  on  that  wonderful  performance,  and  we 
settled  to  begin  next  morning  at  seven  o'clock.  We  were 
to  work  two  hours  every  morning,  and  two  or  three  hours 
every  night,  except  on  Saturdays,  when  I  was  to  rest.  On 
Sundays,  of  course,  I  was  to  rest  also,  and  I  considered 
these  very  easy  terms. 

Our  plans  being  thus  arranged  to  our  mutual  satisfaction, 
the  Doctor  took  me  into  the  house  to  present  me  to  Mrs. 
Strong,  whom  we  found  in  the  Doctor's  new  study,  dusting 
his  books, — a  freedom  which  he  never  permitted  anybody 
else  to  take  with  those  sacred  favorites. 

They  had  postponed  their  breakfast  on  my  account,  and 
we  sat  down  to  the  table  together.  We  had  not  been  seated 
long,  when  I  saw  an  approaching  arrival  in  Mrs.  Strong's 
face,  before  I  heard  any  sound  of  it.  A  gentleman  on 
horseback  came  to  the  gate,  and,  leading  his  horse  into  the 
little  court,  with  the  bridle  over  his  arm,  as  if  he  was  quite 
at  home,  tied  him  to  a  ring  in  the  empty  coach-house  wall, 
and  came  into  the  breakfast  parlor,  whip  in  hand.  It  was 
Mr.  Jack  Maldon;  and  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  was  not  at  all  im- 
proved by  India,  I  thought.  I  was  in  a  state  of  ferocious 
virtue,  however,  as  to  young  men  who  were  not  cutting 
down  the  trees  in  the  forest  of  difficulty;  and  my  impression 
must  be  received  with  due  allowance. 

"  Mr.  Jack  !"  said  the  Doctor,  "  Copperfield  !" 

Mr.  Jack  Maldon  shook  hands  with  me;  but  not  very 
warmly,  I  believed;  and  with  an  air  of  languid  patronage,  at 
which  I  secretly  took  great  umbrage.  But  his  languor 
altogether  was  quite  a  wonderful  sight;  except  when  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  his  cousin  Annie. 

"  Have  you  breakfasted  this  morning,  Mr.  Jack  ?"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"I  hardly  ever  take  breakfast,  sir,"  he  replied,  with  his 
head  thrown  back  in  an  easy  chair.     "I  find  it  bores  me." 

''  Is  there  any  news  to-day  ?"  inquired  the  Doctor. 

"Nothing  at  all,  sir,"  replied  Maldon.  "There's  an  ac- 
count about  the  people  being  hungry  and  discontented  down 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  519 

in  the  North,  but  they  are  always  being  hungry  and  discon- 
tented somewhere." 

The  Doctor  looked  grave,  and  said,  as  though  he  wished 
to  change  the  subject,  "  Then  there's  no  news  at  all;  and 
no  news,  they  say,  is  good  news." 

"  There's  a  long  statement  in  the  paper,  sir,  about  a  mur- 
der," observed  Mr.  Maldon.  "But  somebody  is  always 
being  murdered,  and  I  didn't  read  it." 

A  display  of  indifference  to  all  the  actions  and  passions 
of  mankind  was  not  supposed  to  be  such  a  distinguished 
quality  at  that  time,  I  think,  as  I  have  observed  it  to  be 
considered  since.  I  have  known  it  very  fashionable  indeed. 
I  have  seen  it  displayed  with  such  success,  that  I  have  en- 
countered some  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  might  as 
well  have  been  born  caterpillars.  Perhaps  it  impressed  me 
the  more  then,  because  it  was  new  to  me,  but  it  certainly 
did  not  tend  to  exalt  my  opinion  of,  or  to  strengthen  my 
confidence  in,  Mr.  Jack  Maldon. 

"  I  came  out  to  inquire  whether  Annie  would  like  to  go 
to  the  opera  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Maldon,  turning  to  her. 
"It's  the  last  good  night  there  will  be,  this  season;  and 
there's  a  singer  there,  whom  she  really  ought  to  hear.  She 
is  perfectly  exquisite.  Besides  which,  she  is  so  charm- 
ingly ugly,"  relapsing  into  languor. 

The  Doctor,  ever  pleased  with  what  was  likely  to  please 
his  young  wife,  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"  You  must  go,  Annie.     You  must  go." 

*'  I  would  rather  not,"  she  said  to  the  Doctor.  "  I  prefer 
to  remain  at  home.  I  would  much  rather  remain  at 
home." 

Without  looking  at  her  cousin,  she  then  addressed  me, 
and  asked  me  about  Agnes,  and  whether  she  should  see  her, 
and  whether  she  was  not  likely  to  come  that  day;  and  was  so 
much  disturbed,  that  I  wondered  how  even  the  Doctor,  but- 
tering his  toast,  could  be  blind  to  what  was  so  obvious. 

But  he  saw  nothing  He  told  her,  good-naturedly,  that 
she  was  young  and  ought  to  be  amused  and  entertained,  and 
must  not  allow  herself  to  be  made  dull  by  a  dull  old  fellow. 
Moreover,  he  said,  he  wanted  to  hear  her  sing  all  the  new 
singer's  songs  to  him;  and  how  could  she  do  that  well,  unless 
she  went  ?  So  the  Doctor  persisted  in  making  the  engage- 
ment for  her,  and  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  was  to  come  back  to 
dinner.     This   concluded,  he  went  to  his  Patent  place,    I 


520  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

suppose;  but  at  all  events  went  away  on  his  horse,  looking 
very  idle. 

I  was  curious  to  find  out  next  morning,  whether  she  had 
been.  She  had  not,  but  had  sent  into  London  to  put  her 
cousin  off;  and  had  gone  out  in  the  afternoon  to  see  Agnes, 
and  had  prevailed  upon  the  Doctor  to  go  with  her;  and  they 
had  walked  home  by  the  fields,  the  Doctor  told  me,  the 
evening  being  delightful.  I  wondered  then,  whether  she 
would  have  gone  if  Agnes  had  not  been  in  town,  and  whether 
Agnes  had  some  good  influence  over  her  too  ! 

She  did  not  look  very  happy,  I  thought;  but  it  was  a  good 
ace,  or  a  very  false  one.  I  often  glanced  at  it,  for  she  sat 
n  the  window  all  the  time  we  were  at  work;  and  made  our 
breakfast,  which  we  took  by  snatches  as  we  were  employed. 
When  I  left,  at  nine  o'clock,  she  was  kneeling  on  the  ground 
at  the  Doctor's  feet,  putting  on  his  shoes  and  gaiters  for 
him.  There  was  a  softened  shade  upon  her  face,  thrown 
from  some  green  leaves  overhanging  the  open  window  of 
the  low  room;  and  I  thought  all  the  way  to  Doctors'  Com- 
mons, of  the  night  when  I  had  seen  it  looking  at  him  as  he 
read. 

I  was  pretty  busy  now;  up  at  five  in  the  morning,  and 
home  at  nine  or  ten  at  night.  But  I  had  infinite  satisfac- 
tion in  being  so  closely  engaged,  and  never  walked  slowly 
on  any  account,  and  felt  enthusiastically  that  the  more  I 
tired  myself,  the  more  I  was  doing  to  deserve  Dora,  I  had 
not  revealed  myself  in  my  altered  character  to  Dora  yet,  be- 
cause she  was  coming  to  see  Miss  Mills  in  a  few  days,  and 
I  deferred  all  I  had  to  tell  her  until  then;  merely  informing 
her  in  my  letters  (all  our  communications  were  secretly  for- 
warded through  Miss  Mills),  that  I  had  much  to  tell  her.  In 
the  meantime,  I  put  myself  on  a  short  allowance  of  bear's 
grease,  wholly  abandoned  scented  soap  and  lavender  water, 
and  sold  off  three  waistcoats  at  a  prodigious  sacrifice,  as 
being  too  luxurious  for  my  stern  career. 

Not  satisfied  with  all  these  proceedings,  but  burning  with 
impatience  to  do  something  more,  I  went  to  see  Traddles, 
now  lodging  up  behind  the  parapet  of  a  house  in  Castle 
street,  Holborn.  Mr.  Dick,  who  had  been  with  me  to  High- 
gate  twice  already,  and  had  resumed  his  companionship 
with  the  Doctor,  I  took  with  me. 

I  took  Mr.  Dick  with  me,  because,  acutely  sensitive  to  my 
aunt's  reverses,  and  sincerely  believing  that  no  galley-slave 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


521 


or  convict  worked  as  I  did,  he  had  begun  to  fret  and  worry 
himself  out  of  spirits  and  appetite,  at  having  nothing  useful 
to  do.  In  this  condition,  he  felt  more  incapable  of  finishing 
the  Memorial  than  ever;  and  the  harder  he  worked  at  it,  the 
oftener  that  unlucky  head  of  King  Charles  the  First  got  into 
it.  Seriously  appprehending  that  his  malady  would  increase, 
unless  we  put  some  innocent  deception  upon  him  and  caused 
him  to  believe  that  he  was  useful,  or  unless  A^e  could  put 
him  in  the  way  of  being  really  useful  (which  would  be 
better),  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  if  Traddles  could  help 
us.  Before  we  went,  I  wrote  Traddles  a  full  statement  of 
all  that  had  happened,  and  Traddles  wrote  me  back  a  cap- 
ital answer,  expressive  of  his  sympathy  and  friendship. 

We  found  him  hard  at  work  with  his  inkstand  and  papers, 
refreshed  by  the  sight  of  the  flower-pot  stand  and  the  little 
round  table  in  a  corner  of  the  small  apartment.  He  re- 
ceived ts  cordially,  and  made  friends  with  Mr.  Dick  in  a 
moment.  Mr.  Dick  professed  an  absolute  certainty  of 
having  seen  him  before,  and  we  both  said,  ''Very  likely." 

The  first  subject  on  which  I  had  to  consult  Traddles  was 
this: — I  had  heard  that  many  men  distinguished  in  various 
pursuits  had  begun  life  by  reporting  debates  in  Parliament. 
Traddles  having  mentioned  newspapers  to  me,  as  one  of 
his  hopes,  I  had  put  the  two  things  together,  and  told  Trad- 
dles in  my  letter  that  I  wished  to  know  how  I  could  qualify 
myself  for  this  pursuit.  Traddles  now  informed  me,  as  the 
result  of  his  inquiries,  that  the  mere  mechanical  acquisition 
necessary,  except  in  rare  cases,  for  thorough  excellence  in 
it,  that  is  to  say,  a  perfect  and  entire  command  of  the  mys- 
tery of  short-hand  writing  and  reading,  was  about  equal  in 
difficulty  to  the  mastery  of  six  languages;  and  that  it  might 
perhaps  be  attained  by  dint  of  perseverance,  in  the  course 
of  a  few  years.  Traddles  reasonably  supposed  that  this 
would  settle  the  business;  but  I,  only  feeling  that  here  in- 
deed were  a  few  tall  trees  to  be  hewn  down,  immediately 
resolved  to  work  my  way  on  to  Dora  through  this  thicket, 
ax  in  hand. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  Traddles!" 
said  I.     "  I'll  begin  to-morrow." 

Traddles  looked  astonished,  as  well  he  might;  but  he  had 
no  notion  as  yet  of  my  rapturous  condition. 

"  I'll  buy  a  book,"  said  I,  "  with  a  good  scheme  of  this 
art  in  it;  I'll  work  at  it  at  the  Commons,  where  I  haven't 


522  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

half  enough  to  do;  I'll  take  down  the  speeches  in  our  court 
for  practice — T raddles,  my  dear  fellow,  I'll  master  it!" 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes,  "  I  had  no 
idea  you  were  such  a  determined  character,  Copperfield!" 

I  don't  know  how  he  should  have  had,  for  it  was  new 
enough  to  me.  I  passed  that  off,  and  brought  Mr.  Dick  on 
the  carpet. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  wistfully,  "  if  I  could  exert 
myself,  Mr.  Traddles — if  I  could  beat  a  drum— or  blow 
anything!" 

Poor  fellow!  I  have  little  doubt  he  would  have  preferred 
such  an  employment  in  his  heart  to  all  others.  Traddles, 
who  would  not  have  smiled  for  the  world,  replied  composedly: 

*'  But  you  are  a  very  good  penman,  sir.  You  told  me  so, 
Copperfield  ?" 

"  Excellent !"  said  I.  And  indeed  he  was.  He  wrote  with 
extraordinary  neatness. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  Traddles,  "you  could  copy  writ- 
ings, sir,  if  I  got  them  for  you  ?" 

Mr.  Dick  looked  doubtfully  at  me.     "  Eh,  Trotwood  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  Mr.  Dick  shook  his,  and  sighed.  "  Tell 
him  about  the  Memorial,"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

I  explained  to  Traddles  that  there  was  a  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing King  Charles  the  First  out  of  Mr.  Dick's  manuscripts  ; 
Mr.  Dick  in  the  meanwhile  looking  very  deferentially  and 
seriously  at  Traddles,  and  sucking  his  thumb. 

*'  But  these  writings,  you  know,  that  I  speak  of,  are  already 
drawn  up  and  finished,"  said  Traddles  after  a  little  consid- 
eration. "  Mr.  Dick  has  nothing  to  do  with  them.  Wouldn't 
that  make  a  difference,  Copperfield  ?  At  all  events  wouldn't 
it  be  well  to  try  ?" 

This  gave  us  new  hope.  Traddles  and  I  laying  our  heads 
together  apart,  while  Mr.  Dick  anxiously  Avatched  us  from 
his  chair,  we  concocted  a  scheme  in  virtue  of  which  we  got 
him  to  work  next  day,  with  triumphant  success. 

On  a  table  by  the  window  in  Buckingham  Street,  we  set 
out  the  work  Traddles  procured  for  him — which  was  to  make, 
I  forget  how  many  copies  of  a  legal  document  about  some 
right  of  way — and  on  another  table  we  spread  the  last  unfin- 
ished original  of  the  great  Memorial.  Our  mstructions  to  Mr. 
Dick  were  that  he  should  copy  exactly  what  he  had  before 
him,  without  the  least  departure  from  the  original;  and  that 
when  he  felt  it  necessary  to  make  the  slightest  allusion  to 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  523 

King  Charles  the  First,  he  should  fly  to  the  Memorial.  We 
exhorted  him  to  be  resolute  in  this,  and  left  my  aunt  to  ob- 
serve him.  My  aunt  reported  to  us,  afterwards,  that,  at  first, 
he  was  like  a  man  playing  the  kettle-drums,  and  constantly 
dividing  his  attention  between  the  two:  but  that,  finding  this 
confuse  and  fatigue  him,  and  having  his  copy  there,  plainly 
before  his  eyes,  he  soon  set  at  it  in  an  orderly,  business-like 
manner,  and  postponed  the  Memorial  to  a  more  convenient 
time.  In  a  word,  although  we  took  great  care  that  he  should 
have  no  more  to  do  than  was  good  for  him,  and  although  he 
did  not  begin  with  the  beginning  of  a  week,  he  earned  by 
the  following  Saturday  night  ten  shillings  and  ninepence, 
and  never  while  I  live,  shall  I  forget  his  going  about  to  all 
the  shops  in  the  neighborhood  to  change  his  treasure  into 
sixpences,  or  his  bringing  them  to  my  aunt  arranged  in  the 
form  of  a  heart  upon  a  waiter,  with  tears  of  joy  and  pride  in 
his  eyes.  He  was  like  one  under  the  propitious  influence  of  a 
charm,  from  the  moment  of  his  being  usefully  employed; 
and  if  there  were  a  happy  man  in  tlTe  world,  that  Saturday 
night,  it  was  the  grateful  creature  who  thought  my  aunt  the 
most  wonderful  woman  in  existence,  and  me  the  most  won- 
derful young  man. 

"  No  starving  now,  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  shaking 
hands  with  me  in  a  corner.  "  I'll  provide  for  her,  sir!"  and 
he  flourished  his  ten  fingers  in  the  air,  as  if  they  were  ten 
banks. 

I  hardly  know  which  was  the  better  pleased,  Traddles  or 
I.  "  It  really,"  said  Traddles,  suddenly,  taking  a  letter  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  giving  it  to  me,  "  put  Mr.  Micawber  quite 
out  of  my  head!" 

The  letter  (Mr.  Micawber  never  missed  any  possible  op- 
portunity of  writing  a  letter)  was  addressed  to  me.  "  By  the 
kindness  of  T.  Traddles,  Esquire,  of  the  Inner  Temple." 
It  ran  thus: — 

"  My  dear  Copperfield, 

"  You  may  possibly  not  be  unprepared  to  receive 
the  intimation  that  something  has  turned  up,  I  may  have 
mentioned  to  you  on  a  former  occasion  that  I  was  in  ex- 
pectation of  such  an  event. 

'*I  am  about  to  establish  myself  in  one  of  the  provincial 
towns  of  our  favored  island  (where  the  society  may  be  dc- 


524  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

scribed  as  a  happy  admixture  of  the  agricultural  and  the 
clerical),  in  immediate  connection  with  one  of  the  learned 
professions.  Mrs.  Micawber  and  our  offspring  will  accom- 
pany me.  Our  ashes,  at  a  future  period,  will  probably  be 
found  commingled  in  the  cemetery  attached  to  a  venerable 
pile,  for  which  the  spot  to  which  I  refer,  has  acquired  a 
reputation,  shall  I  say  from  China  to  Peru  ? 

"  In  bidding   adieu   to   the   modern   Babylon,   where  we 
have  undergone  many  vicissitudes,  I  trust  not  ignobly,  Mrs. 
Micawber  and  myself  cannot  disguise  from  our  minds  that 
we  part,  it  may  be  for  years  and  it  may  be  for  ever,  with  an 
individual  linked  by  strong  associations  to  the  altar  of  our 
domestic  life.     If,  on  the  eve  of  such  a  departure,  you  will 
accompany  our  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  to  our 
present  abode,  and  there  reciprocate  the  wishes  natural  to 
the  occasion,  you  will  confer  a  boon 
''On 
*'  One 
"  Who 
"Is 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  WiLKiNS  Micawber." 

I  was  glad  to  find  Mr.  Micawber  had  got  rid  of  his  dust 
and  ashes,  and  that  something  really  had  turned  up  at  last. 
Learning  from  Traddles  that  the  invitation  referred  to  the 
evening  then  wearing  away,  I  expressed  my  readiness  to  do 
honor  to  it;  and  we  went  off  together  to  the  lodging  which 
Mr.  Micawber  occupied  as  Mr.  Mortimer,  and  which  was 
situated  near  the  top  of  the  Gray's  Inn  Road. 

The  resources  of  this  lodging  were  so  limited,  that  we 
found  the  twins,  now  some  eight  or  nine  years  old,  reposing 
in  a  turn-up  bedstead  in  the  family  sitting-room,  where  Mr. 
Micawber  had  prepared,  in  a  wash-hand-stand  jug,  what  he 
called  a  "  Brew  "  of  the  agreeable  beverage  for  which  he 
was  famous.  I  had  the  pleasure,  on  this  occasion,  of  renew- 
ing the  acquaintance  of  Master  Micawber,  whom  I  found  a 
promising  boy  of  about  twelve  or  thirteen,  very  subject  to 
that  restlessness  of  limb  which  is  not  an  unfrequent  phe- 
nomenon in  youths  of  his  age.  I  also  became  once  more 
known  to  his  sister,  Miss  Micawber,  in  whom,  as  Mr.  Mic- 
awber told  us,  "  her  mother  renewed  her  youth,  like  the 
Phoenix." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  525 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  yourself 
and  Mr.  Traddles  find  us  on  the  brink  of  migration,  and 
will  excuse  any  little  discomforts  incidental  to  that  position." 

Glancing  round  as  I  made  a  suitable  reply,  I  observed 
that  the  family  effects  were  already  packed,  and  that  the 
amount  of  luggage  was  by  no  means  overwhelming.  I  con- 
gratulated Mrs.  Micawber  on  the  approaching  change. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "of 
your  friendly  interest  in  all  our  affairs,  I  am  well  assured. 
My  family  may  consider  it  banishment,  if  they  please;  but 
I  am  a  wife  and  mother,  and  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Mic- 
awber." 

Traddles,  appealed  to  by  Mrs.  Micawber's  eye,  feelingly 
acquiesced. 

"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  that,  at  least,  is  my  view, 
my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield  and  Mr.  Traddles,  of  the  obliga- 
tion which  I  took  upon  myself  when  I  repeated  the  irrevoc- 
able words,  *  I,  Emma,  take  thee,  Wilkins.'  I  read  the  ser- 
vice over  with  a  flat-candle  on  the  previous  night,  and  the 
conclusion  I  derived  from  it  was,  that  I  never  could  desert 
Mr.  Micawber.  And,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  though  it  is 
possible  I  may  be  mistaken  in  my  view  of  the  ceremony,  I 
never  will !" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  a  little  impatiently,  "  I 
am  not  conscious  that  you  are  expected  to  do  anything  of 
the  sort." 

"  I  am  aware,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Micawber,  "  that  I  am  now  about  to  cast  my  lot  among 
strangers;  and  I  am  also  aware  that  the  various  members  of 
my  family,  to  whom  Mr.  Micawber  has  written  in  the  most 
gentlemanly  terms,  announcing  that  fact,  have  not  taken  the 
least  notice  of  Mr.  Micawber's  communication.  Indeed  I 
may  be  superstitious,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  but  it  appears 
to  me  that  Mr.  Micawber  is  destined  never  to  receive  any 
answers  whatever  to  the  great  majority  of  the  communica- 
tions he  writes.  I  may  augur,  from  the  silence  of  my  family, 
that  they  object  to  the  resolution  I  have  taken;  but  I  should 
not  allow  myself  to  be  swerved  from  the  path  of  duty,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  even  by  my  papa  and  mamma,  were  they  still 
living." 

I  expressed  my  opinion  that  this  was  going  in  the  right 
direction. 

"  It  may  be  a  sacrifice,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  to  immure 


526  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

one's-self  in  a  Cathedral  town;  but  surely,  Mr.  Copperfield, 
if  it  is  a  sacrifice  in  me,  it  is  much  more  a  sacrifice  in  a  man 
of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities." 

"  Oh  !     You  are  going  to  a  Cathedral  town  ?"  said  I. 

Mr.  Micawber  who  had  been  helping  us  all  out  of  the 
wash-hand-stand  jug,  replied: 

"  To  Canterbury.  In  fact,  my  dear  Copperfield,  I  have 
entered  into  arrangements,  by  virtue  of  which  I  stand 
pledged  and  contracted  to  our  friend  Heep,  to  assist  and 
serve  him  in  the  capacity  of — and  to  be — his  confidential 
clerk." 

I  stared  at  Mr.  Micawber,  who  greatly  enjoyed  my  surprise. 

"I  am  bound  to  state  to  you,"  he  said,  with  an  official  air^ 
"  that  the  business  habits,  and  the  prudent  suggestions  of 
Mrs.  Micawber,  have  in  a  great  measure  conduced  to  this 
result.  The  gauntlet,  to  which  Mrs.  Micawber  referred 
upon  a  former  occasion,  being  thrown  down  in  the  form  of 
an  advertisement,  was  taken  up  by  my  friend  Heep,  and  led 
to  a  mutual  recognition.  Of  my  friend  Heep,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  "who  is  a  man  of  remarkable  shrewdness,  I 
desire  to  speak  with  all  possible  respect.  My  friend  Heep 
has  not  fixed  the  positive  remuneration  at  too  high  a  figure, 
but  he  has  made  a  great  deal  in  the  way  of  extrication  from 
the  pressure  of  pecuniary  difficulties,  contingent  on  the 
value  of  my  services;  and  on  the  value  of  those  services  I 
pin  my  faith.  Such  address  and  intelligence  as  I  chance  to 
possess,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  boastfully  disparaging  himself, 
with  the  old  genteel  air,  "will  be  devoted  to  my  friend 
Heep's  service.  I  have  already  some  acquaintance  with  the 
law — as  a  defendant  on  civil  process — and  I  shall  immedi- 
ately apply  myself  to  the  Commentaries  of  one  of  the  most 
eminent  and  remarkable  of  our  English  Jurists.  I  believe 
it  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  I  allude  to  Mr.  Justice  Black- 
stone." 

These  observations,  and  indeed  the  greater  part  of  the 
observations  made  that  evening,  were  interrupted  by  Mrs. 
Micawber's  discovering  that  Master  Micawber  was  sitting 
on  his  boots,  or  holding  his  head  on  with  both  arms  as  if  he 
felt  it  loose,  or  accidentally  kicking  Traddles  under  the 
table,  or  shuffling  his  feet  over  one  another,  or  producing 
them  at  distances  from  himself  apparently  outrageous  to 
nature,  or  lying  sideways  with  his  hair  among  the  wine 
glasses,  or  developing  his  restlessness  of  limb  in  some  other 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ^^j 

form  incompatible  with  the  general  interests  of  society; 
and  by  Master  Micawber's  receiving  those  discoveries  in  a 
resentful  spirit.  1  sat  all  the  while,  amazed  by  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber's disclosure,  and  wondering  what  it  meant;  until  Mrs. 
Micawber  resumed  the  thread  of  the  discourse,  and  claimed 
my  attention. 

"  What  I  particularly  request  Mr.  Micawber  to  be  careful 
of,  is,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "that  he  does  not,  my  dear 
Mr.  Copperfield,  in  applying  himself  to  this  subordinate 
branch  of  the  law,  place  it  out  of  his  power  to  rise,  ulti- 
mately, to  the  top  of  the  tree.  I  am  convinced  that  Mr. 
Micawber,  giving  his  mind  to  a  profession  so  adapted  to  his 
fertile  resources,  and  his  flow  of  language,  7nusf  distinguish 
himself.  Now,  for  example,  Mr.  Traddles,"  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  assuming  a  profound  air,  "  a  Judge,  or  even  say 
a  Chancellor.  Does  an  individual  place  himself  beyond  the 
pale  of  those  preferments  by  entering  on  such  an  office  as 
Mr.  Micawber  has  accepted  ?" 

*'  My  dear,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber — but  glancing  in- 
quisitively at  Traddles,  too;  "we  have  time  enough  before 
us,  for  the  consideration  of  those  questions." 

"Micawber,"  she  returned,  "no!  Your  mistake  in  life 
is,  that  you  do  not  look  forward  far  enough.  You  are 
bound,  in  justice  to  your  family,  if  not  to  yourself,  to  take 
in  a  comprehensive  glance  the  extremest  point  in  the  hori- 
zon to  which  your  abilities  may  lead  you." 

Mr.  Micawber  coughed,  and  drank  his  punch  with  an  air 
of  exceeding  satisfaction — still  glancing  at  Traddles,  as  if 
he  desired  to  have  his  opinion. 

"Why,  the  plain  state  of  the  case,  Mrs.  Micawber,"  said 
Traddles,  mildly  breaking  the  truth  to  her,  "  I  mean  the 
real  prosaic  fact,  you  know — " 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  my  dear  Mr.  Traddles,  I 
wish  to  be*  as  prosaic  and  literal  as  possible  on  a  subject  of 
so  much  importance." 

" — Is,"  said  Traddles,  "  that  this  branch  of  the  law^  even 
if  Mr.  Micawber  were  a  regular  solicitor — " 

"  Exactly  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  ("  Wilkins,  you 
are  squinting,  and  will  not  be  able  to  get  your  eyes  back.") 

"Has  nothing,"  pursued  Traddles,  "to  do  with  that. 
Only  a  barrister  is  eligible  for  such  preferments;  and  Mr. 
Micawber  could  not  be  a  barrister,  without  being  entered  at 
an  inn  of  court  as  a  student  for  five  years." 


528  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Do  I  follow  you  ?"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her  most 
affable  air  of  business.  "  Do  I  understand,  my  dear  Mr. 
Traddles,  that,  at  the  expiration  of  that  period,  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber would  be  eligible  as  Judge  or  Chancellor  ?" 

"  He  would  be  eligible,''  returned  Traddles,  with  a  strong 
emphasis  on  that  word. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  That  is  quite  suf- 
ficient. If  such  is  the  case,  and  Mr.  Micawber  forfeits  no 
privilege  by  entering  on  these  duties,  my  anxiety  is  set  at 
rest.  I  speak,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  as  a  female  neces- 
sarily; but  I  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber possesses  what  I  have  heard  my  papa  call,  when  I  lived 
at  home,  the  judicial  mind;  and  I  hope  Mr.  Micawber  is 
naw  entering  on  a  field  where  that  mind  will  develop  itself, 
and  take  a  commanding  station." 

I  quite  believe  that  Mr.  Micawber  saw  himself,  in  his 
judicial  mind's  eye,  on  the  wool-sack.  He  passed  his  hand 
complacently  over  his  bald  head,  and  said  with  ostentatious 
resignation: 

"  My  dear,  we  will  not  anticipate  the  decrees  of  for- 
tune. If  I  am  reserved  to  wear  a  wig,  I  am  at  least  pre- 
pared, externally,"  in  allusion  to  his  baldness,  "for  that  dis- 
tinction. I  do  not,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  regret  my  hair, 
and  I  may  have  been  deprived  of  it  for  a  specific  purpose. 
I  cannot  say.  It  is  my  intention,  my  dear  Copperfield,  to 
educate  my  son  for  the  Church;  I  will  not  deny  that  I 
should  be  happy,  on  his  account,  to  attain  to  eminence." 

*'  For  the  Church?"  said  I,  still  pondering,  between  whiles, 
on  Uriah  Heep. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  He  has  a  remarkable  head- 
voice,  and  will  commence  as  a  chorister.  Our  residence  at 
Canterbury,  and  our  local  connexion,  will,  no  doubt,  enable 
him  to  take  advantage  of  any  vacancy  that  may  arise  in  the 
Cathedral  corps." 

On  looking  at  Master  Micawber  again,  I  saw  that  he  had 
a  certain  expression  of  face,  as  if  his  voice  were  behind  his 
eyebrows;  where  it  presently  appeared  to  be,  on  his  singing 
us  (as  an  alternative  between  that  and  bed)  "  The  Wood- 
pecker's tapping."  After  many  compliments  on  this  per- 
formance, we  fell  into  some  general  conversation;  and  as  I 
was  too  full  of  my  desperate  intentions  to  keep  my  altered 
circumstances  to  myself,  I  made  them  known  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Micawber.     I  cannot  express  how  extremely  delighted 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  529 

they  both  were,  by  the  idea  of  my  aunt's  being  in  difficul- 
ties; and  how  comfortable  and  friendly  it  made  them. 

When  we  were  nearly  come  to  the  last  round  of  the 
punch,  I  addressed  myself  to  Traddles,  and  reminded  him 
that  we  must  not  separate,  without  wishing  our  friends 
health,  happiness,  and  success  in  their  new  career.  I  beg- 
ged Mr.  Micawber  to  fill  us  bumpers,  and  proposed  the 
toast  in  due  form:  shaking  hands  with  him  across  the  table, 
and  kissing  Mrs.  Micawber,  to  commemorate  that  eventful 
occasion.  Traddles  imitated  me  in  the  first  particular,  but 
did  not  consider  himself  a  sufficiently  old  friend  to  venture 
on  the  second. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  rising  with 
one  of  his  thumbs  in  each  of  his  waistcoat  pockets,  "  the 
companion  of  my  youth:  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression 
— and  my  esteemed  friend  Traddles:  if  I  may  be  permitted 
to  call  him  so — will  allow  me  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Micawber, 
myself,  and  our  offspring,  to  thank  them  in  the  warmest  and 
most  uncompromising  terms  for  their  good  wishes.  It  may 
be  expected  that  on  the  eve  of  a  migration  which  will  con- 
sign us  to  a  perfectly  new  existence,"  Mr.  Micawber  spoke 
as  if  they  were  going  five  hundred  thousand  miles,  "  I  should 
offer  a  few  valedictory  remarks  to  two  such  friends  as  I  see 
before  me.  But  all  that  I  have  to  say  in  this  way,  I  have 
said.  Whatever  station  in  society  I  may  attain  through  the 
medium  of  the  learned  profession  of  which  I  am  about  to 
become  an  unworthy  member,  I  shall  endeavor  not  to  dis- 
grace, and  Mrs.  Micawber  will  be  safe  to  adorn.  Under  the 
temporary  pressure  of  pecuniary  liabilities,  contracted  with 
a  view  of  their  immediate  liquidation  but  remaining  un- 
liquidated through  a  combination  of  circumstances,  I  have 
been  under  the  necessity  of  assuming  a  garb  from  which  my 
natural  instincts  recoil — I  allude  to  spectacles — and  possess- 
ing myself  of  a  cognomen,  to  which  I  can  establish  no  legiti- 
mate pretensions.  All  I  have  to  say  on  that  score  is  that  the 
cloud  has  passed  from  the  dreary  scene,  and  the  God  of  day 
is  once  more  high  upon  the  mountain  tops.  On  Monday  next, 
on  the  arrival  of  the  four  o'clock  afternoon  coach  at  Canter- 
bury, my  foot  will  be  on  my  native  heath — mv  name,  Micaw- 
ber!" 

Mr.  Micawber  resumed  his  seat  on  the  close  of  these  re- 
marks, and  drank  two  glasses  of  punch  in  grave  successioa 
Jle  then  said  with  much  solemnity: 


530  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  One  thing  more  I  have  to  do,  before  this  separation  is 
complete,  and  that  is  to  perform  an  act  of  justice.  My  friend, 
Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  has,  on  two  several  occasions,  '  put 
his  name,'  if  I  may  use  a  common  expression,  to  bills  of  ex- 
change for  my  accommodation.  On  the  first  occasion  Mr. 
Thomas  Traddles  was  left — let  me  say,  in  short,  in  the  lurch. 
The  fulfillment  of  the  second  has  not  yet  arrived.  The 
amount  of  the  first  obligation,"  here  Mr.  Micawber  carefully 
referred  to  papers,  "  was,  I  believe,  twenty-three,  four,  nine 
and  a  half;  of  the  second,  according  to  my  entry  of  that 
transaction,  eighteen,  six,  two.  The  sums,  united,  make  a 
total,  if  my  calculation  is  correct,  amounting  to  forty-one, 
ten,  eleven  and  a  half.  My  friend  Copperfield  will  perhaps 
do  me  the  favor  to  check  that  total!" 

I  did  so  and  found  it  correct. 

"  To  leave  this  metropolis,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  and  my 
friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  without  acquitting  myself  of 
the  pecuniary  part  of  this  obligation  would  weigh  upon  my 
mind  to  an  insupportable  extent.  I  have,  therefore,  pre- 
pared for  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  I  now  hold 
in  my  hand,  a  document,  which  accomplishes  the  desired 
object.  I  beg  to  hand  to  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles 
my  I.  O.  U.  for  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and  a  half;  and  I  am 
happy  to  recover  my  moral  dignity,  and  to  know  that  I  can 
once  more  walk  erect  before  my  fellow  man!" 

With  this  introduction  (wliich  greatly  affected  him),  Mr. 
Micawber  placed  his  I.  O.  U.  in  the  hands  of  Traddles,  and 
said  he  wished  him  well  in  every  relation  in  life.  I  am  per- 
suaded, not  only  that  this  was  quite  the  same  to  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber as  paying  the  money,  but  that  Traddles  himself  hardly 
knew  the  difference  until  he  had  had  time  to  think  about  it. 

Mr.  Micawber  walked  so  erect  before  his  fellow  man,  on 
the  strength  of  this  virtuous  action,  that  his  chest  looked 
half  as  broad  again  when  he  lighted  us  down  stairs.  We 
parted  with  great  heartiness  on  both  sides;  and  when  I  had 
seen  Traddles  to  his  own  door,  and  was  going  home  alone, 
I  thought,  among  the  other  odd  and  contradictory  things  I 
mused  upon,  that,  slippery  as  Mr.  Micawber  was,  I  was  proba- 
bly indebted  to  some  compassionate  recollection  he  retained 
of  me  as  his  boy-lodger,  for  never  having  been  asked  by  him 
for  money.  I  certainly  should  not  have  had  the  moral  cour- 
age to  refuse  it;  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  knew  that  (to  his 
credit  be  it  written),  quite  as  well  as  I  did. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  531 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A       LITTLE       COLD      WATER. 

My  new  life  had  lasted  for  more  than  a  week,  and  I  was 
stronger  than  ever  in  those  tremendous  practical  resolutions 
that  I  felt  the  crisis  required.  I  continued  to  walk  ex- 
tremely fast,  and  to  have  a  general  idea  that  I  was  getting  on. 
I  made  it  a  rule  to  take  as  much  out  of  myself  as  I  possibly 
could,  in  my  way  of  doing  everything  to  which  I  applied 
my  energies.  I  made  a  perfect  victim  of  myself.  I  even 
entertained  some  idea  of  putting  myself  on  a  vegetable  diet, 
vaguely  conceiving  that,  in  becoming  a  graminivorous  ani- 
mal, I  should  sacrifice  to  Dora. 

As  yet,  little  Dora  was  quite  unconscious  of  my  desperate 
firmness,  otherwise  than  as  my  letters  darkly  shadowed  it 
forth.  But,  another  Saturday  came,  and  on  that  Saturday 
evening  she  was  to  be  at  Miss  Mills's;  and  when  Mr  Mills 
had  gone  to  his  whist-club  (telegraphed  to  me  in  the  street, 
by  a  bird-cage  in  the  drawing-room  middle  window),  I  was 
to  go  there  to  tea. 

By  this  time,  we  were  quite  settled  down  in  Buckingham 
Street,  where  Mr.  Dick  continued  his  copying  in  a  state  of 
absolute  felicity.  My  aunt  had  obtained  a  signal  victory 
over  Mrs.  Crupp,  by  paying  her  off,  throwing  the  first  pitcher 
she  planted  on  the  stairs  out  of  the  window,  and  protecting 
in  person,  up  and  down  the  staircase,  a  supernumerary  whom 
she  engaged  from  the  outer  world.  These  vigorous  meas- 
ures struck  such  terror  to  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  that 
she  subsided  into  her  own  kitchen,  under  the  impression  that 
my  aunt  was  mad.  My  aunt  being  supremely  indifferent  to 
Mrs.  Crupp's  opinion  and  everybody  else's,  and  rather  favor- 
ing than  discouraging  the  idea,  Mrs.  Crupp,  of  late  the  bold, 
became  within  a  few  days  so  faint-hearted  that,  rather  than 
encounter  my  aunt  upon  the  staircase,  she  would  endeavor 
to  hide  her  portly  form  behind  doors — leaving  visible,  how- 
ever, a  wide  margin  of  flannel  petticoat — or  would  shrink 
into  dark  corners.  This  gave  my  aunt  such  unspeakable 
satisfaction,  that  I  believe  she  took  a  delight  in  prowling  up 
and  down,  with  her  bonnet  insanely  perched  on  the  top  of  her 
head,  at  times  when  Mrs.  Crupp  was  likely  to  be  in  the  way. 

My  aunt,  being  uncommonly  neat  and  ingenious,  made  so 


2^2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

many  little  improvements  in  our  domestic  arrangements, 
that  I  seemed  to  be  richer  instead  of  poorer.  Among  the 
rest,  she  converted  the  pantry  into  a  dressing-room  for  me  ; 
and  purchased  and  embellished  a  bedstead  for  my  occupa- 
tion, which  looked  as  like  a  bookcase  in  the  daytime,  as  a 
bedstead  could.  I  was  the  object  of  her  constant  solicitude; 
and  my  poor  mother  herself  could  not  have  loved  me  better; 
or  studied  more  how  to  make  me  happy. 

Peggotty  had  considered  herself  highly  privileged  in  be- 
ing allowed  to  participate  in  these  labors;  and,  although  she 
still  retained  something  of  her  old  sentiment  of  awe  in  ref- 
erence to  my  aunt,  had  received  so  many  marks  of  en- 
couragement and  confidence,  that  they  were  the  best  friends 
possible.  But  the  time  had  now  come  (I  am  speaking  of 
the  Saturday  when  I  was  to  take  tea  at  Miss  Mills's) 
when  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  return  home,  and  enter  on 
the  discharge  of  the  duties  she  had  undertaken  in  behalf  of 
Ham.  "  So  good-by,  Barkis,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  take 
care  of  yourself  !  I  am  sure  I  never  thought  I  could  be 
sorry  to  lose  you  !" 

I  took  Peggotty  to  the  coach-office,  and  saw  her  off.  She 
cried  at  parting,  and  confided  her  brother  to  my  friendship 
as  Ham  had  done.  We  had  heard  nothing  of  him  since  he 
went  away,  that  sunny  afternoon. 

"  And  now,  my  own  dear  Davy,"  said  Peggotty,  "  if,  while 
you're  a  'prentice,  you  should  want  any  money  to  spend;  or 
if,  when  you're  out  of  your  time,  my  dear,  you  should  want 
any  to  set  you  up  (and  you  must  do  one  or  other,  or  both, 
my  darling);  who  has  such  a  good  right  to  ask  leave  to  lend 
it  you,  as  my  sweet  girl's  own  stupid  me." 

I  was  not  so  savagely  independent  as  to  say  anything  in 
reply  but  that  if  ever  I  borrowed  money  of  anyone,  I  would 
borrow  it  of  her.  Next  to  accepting  a  large  sum  on  the 
spot,  I  believe  this  gave  Peggotty  more  comfort  than  any- 
thing I  could  have  done. 

"And,  my  dear  !"  whispered  Peggotty,  "tell  the  pretty 
little  angel  that  I  should  so  have  liked  to  see  her,  only  for  a 
minute.  And  tell  her  that  before  she  marries  my  boy,  I'll 
come  and  make  your  house  so  beautiful  for  you,  if  you'll  let 
me  !" 

I  declared  that  nobody  else  should  touch  it;  and  this  gave 
Peggotty  such  delight  that  she  went  away  in  good  spirits. 

I  fatigued  myself  as  much  as  I  possibly  could  in  the  Com- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


533 


mons  all  day,  by.  a  variety  of  devices,  and  at  the  appointed 
time  in  the  evening  repaired  to  Mr.  Mills's  street.  Mr.  Mills, 
who  was  a  terrible  fellow  to  fall  asleep  after  dinner,  had  not 
yet  gone  out,  and  there  was  no  bird-cage  in  the  middle  win- 
dow. 

He  kept  me  waiting  so  long,  that  I  fervently  hoped  the 
Club  would  fine  him  for  being  late.  At  last  he  came  out; 
and  then  I  saw  my  own  Dora  hang  up  the  bird-cage,  and 
peep  into  the  balcony  to  look  for  me,  and  run  in  again 
when  she  saw  I  was  there,  while  Jip  remained  behind,  to 
bark  injuriously  at  an  immense  butcher's  dog  in  the  street, 
who  could  have  taken  him  like  a  pill. 

Dora  came  to  the  drawing-room  door  to  meet  me;  and 
Jip  came  scrambling  out,  tumbling  over  his  own  growls,  un- 
der the  impression  that  I  was  a  Bandit;  and  we  all  three 
went  in,  as  happy  and  loving  as  could  be.  I  soon  carried 
desolation  into  the  bosom  of  our  joys — not  that  I  meant  to 
do  it,  but  that  I  was  so  full  of  the  subject — by  asking  Dora, 
without  the  smallest  preparation,  if  she  could  love  a 
beggar  ? 

My  pretty,  little,  startled  Dora  !  Her  only  association 
with  the  word  was  a  yellow  face  and  a  nightcap,  or  a  pair 
of  crutches,  or  a  wooden  leg,  or  a  dog  with  a  decanter- 
stand  in  his  mouth,  or  something  of  that  kind;  and  she 
stared  at  me  with  the  most  delightful  wonder. 

**  How  can  you  ask  me  anything  so  foolish  !"  pouted 
Dora.     "  Love  a  beggar  !" 

"  Dora,  my  own  dearest !"  said  I.     "  /  am  a  beggar  !" 

"  How  can  you  be  such  a  silly  thing,"  replied  Dora,  slap- 
ping my  hand,  "as  to  sit  there  telling  such  stories?  I'll 
make  Jip  bite  you." 

Her  childish  way  was  the  most  delicious  way  in  the  world 
to  me,  but  it  was  necessary  to  be  explicit,  and  I  solemnly 
repeated: 

"  Dora,  my  own  life,  I  am  your  ruined  David!" 

"  I  declare  111  make  Jip  bite  you!"  said  Dora,  shaking  her 
curls,  "  if  you  are  so  ridiculous." 

But  I  looked  so  serious  that  Dora  left  off  shaking  her 
curls,  and  laid  her  trembling  little  hand  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  first  looked  scared  and  anxious,  and  then  began  to  cry. 
That  was  dreadful.  I  fell  upon  my  knees  before  the  sofa, 
caressing  her,  and  imploring  her  not  to  rend  my  heart;  but, 
for  some  time,  poor  little  Dora  did  nothing  but  exclaim,  oh 


534 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


dear!  oh  dear!  And  oh,  she  was  so  frightened!  And 
where  was  JuUa  Mills!  And  oh,  take  her  to  Julia  Mills, 
and  go  away,  please!  until  I  was  almost  beside  myself. 

At  last,  after  an  agony  of  supplication  and  protestation,  I 
got  Dora  to  look  at  me,  with  a  horrified  expression  of  face, 
which  I  gradually  soothed  until  it  was  only  loving,  and  her 
soft,  pretty  cheek  was  lying  against  mine.  Then  I  told  her, 
with  my  arms  clasped  round  her,  how  I  loved  her,  so  dearly, 
and  so  dearly;  how  I  felt  it  right  to  offer  to  release  her  from 
her  engagement,  because  now  I  was  poor;  how  I  never  could 
bear  it,  or  recover  it,  if  I  lost  her;  how  I  had  no  fears  of 
poverty,  if  she  had  none,  my  arm  being  nerved  and  my 
heart  inspired  by  her;  how  I  was  already  working  with  a 
courage  such  as  none  but  lovers  knew;  how  I  had  begun  to 
be  practical  and  to  look  into  the  future;  how  a  crust  well 
earned  was  sweeter  far  than  a  feast  inherited;  and  much 
more  to  the  same  purpose,  which  I  delivered  in  a  burst 
of  passionate  eloquence  quite  surprising  to  myself,  though 
I  had  been  thinking  about  it,  day  and  night,  ever  since  my 
aunt  had  astonished  me. 

"  Is  your  heart  mine  still,  dear  Dora?"  said  I,  rapturously, 
for  I  knew  by  her  clinging  to  me    that  it  was. 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Dora.  "Oh,  yes,  it's  all  yours.  Oh, 
don't  be  dreadful !" 

/  dreadful  !     To  Dora  ! 

'  "  Don't  talk  about  being  poor,  and  working  hard  !"  said 
Dora,  nestling  closer  to  me.     "Oh,  don't,  don't!" 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  I,  "  the  crust  well  earned — " 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about 
crusts!"  said  Dora.  "And  Jip  must  have  a  mutton-chop 
every  day  at  twelve,  or  he'll  die." 

I  was  charmed  with  her  childish,  winning  way.  I  fondly 
explained  to  Dora  that  Jip  should  have  his  mutton-chop 
with  his  accustomed  regularity.  I  drew  a  picture  of  our 
frugal  home,  made  independent  by  my  labor — sketching  in 
the  little  house  I  had  seen  at  Highgate,  and  my  aunt  in  her 
room  up-stairs. 

"  I  am  not  dreadful  now,  Dora  ?"  said  I,  tenderly. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Dora.  "  But  I  hope  your  aunt  will 
keep  in  her  own  room  a  good  deal!  And  I  hope  she's  not 
a  scolding  old  thing!" 

If  it  were  possible  for  me  to  love  Dora  more  than  ever,  I 
am  sure  I  did.     But  I  felt  she  was  a  little  impracticable.    It 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  535 

damped  my  new-born  ardor  to  find  that  ardor  so  difficult  of 
communication  to  her.  I  made  another  trial.  When  she 
was  quite  herself  again,  and  was  curling  Jip's  ear,  as  he  lay 
upon  her  lap,  I  became  grave,  and  said: 

"  My  own  !     May  I  mention  something?" 

"  Oh,  please  don't  be  practical!"  said  Dora,  coaxingly. 
"  Because  it  frightens  me  so  !" 

"Sweetheart!"  I  returned;  "there  is  nothing  to  alarm 
you  in  all  this.  I  want  you  to  think  of  it  quite  differ- 
ently. I  want  to  make  it*  nerve  you,  and  inspire  you, 
Dora." 

"Oh,  that's  so  shocking!"  said  Dora. 

"  My  love,  no.  Perseverance  and  strength  of  character 
will  enable  us  to  bear  much  worse  things." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  any  strength  at  all,"  said  Dora,  shak- 
ing her  curls.  "  Have  I,  Jip  ?  Oh,  do  kiss  Jip,  and  be 
agreeable!" 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  kissing  Jip,  when  she  held 
him  up  to  me  for  that  purpose,  putting  her  own  bright, 
rosy  little  mouth  into  kissing  form,  as  she  directed  the 
operation,  which  she  insisted  should  be  performed  sym- 
metrically, on  the  centre  of  his  nose.  I  did  as  she  bade 
me — rewarding  myself  afterward  for  my  obedience — and 
she  charmed  me  out  of  my  graver  character  for  I  don't 
know  how  long. 

"But,  Dora,  my  beloved!"  said  I,  at  last  resuming  it;  "I 
was  going  to  mention  something." 

The  Judge  of  the  Prerogative  Court  might  have  fallen  in 
love  with  her,  to  see  her  fold  her  little  hands  and  hold  them 
up,  begging  and  praying  me  not  to  be  dreadful  any  more. 

"  Indeed  I  am  not  going  to  be,  my  darling!"  T assured  her. 
"  But,  Dora,  my  love,  if  you  will  sometimes  think, — not  de- 
spondingly,  you  know;  far  from  that! — but  if  you  will  some- 
times think — just  to  encourage  yourself — that  you  are  en- 
gaged to  a  poor  man — " 

"  Don't,  don't!  Pray  don't!"  cried  Dora.  "It's  so  very 
dreadful!" 

"  My  soul,  not  at  all!"  said  I,  cheerfully.  "If  you  will 
sometimes  think  of  that,  and  look  about  now  and  then  at 
your  papa's  housekeeping,  and  endeavor  to  acquire  a  little 
habit — of  accounts,  for  instance — " 

Poor  little  Dora  received  this  suggestion  with  something 
that  was  half  a  sob  and  half  a  scream. 


536  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

** — It  will  be  so  useful  to  us  afterwards,"  I  went  on. 
"  And  if  you  would  promise  me  to  read  a  little — a  little 
Cookery  Book  that  I  would  send  you,  it  would  be  so  excel- 
lent for  both  of  us.  For  my  path  in  life,  my  Dora,"  said  I, 
warming  with  the  subject,  "is  stony  and  rugged  now,  and  it 
rests  with  us  to  smooth  it.  We  must  fight  our  way  onward. 
We  must  be  brave.  There  are  obstacles  to  be  met,  and  we 
must  meet,  and  crush  them!" 

I  was  going  on  at  a  great  rate,  with  a  clenched  hand,  and 
a  most  enthusiastic  countenance;  but  it  was  quite  unneces- 
sary to  proceed.  I  had  said  enough.  I  had  done  it  again. 
Oh,  she  was  so  frightened!  Oh,  where  was  Julia  Mills! 
Oh,  take  her  to  Julia  Mills,  and  go  away,  please!  So  that, 
in  short,  I  was  quite  distracted,  and  raved  about  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

I  thought  I  had  killed  her,  this  time.  I  sprinkled  water 
on  her  face.  I  went  down  on  my  knees.  I  plucked  at  my 
hair.  I  denounced  myself  as  a  remorseless  brute  and  a 
ruthless  beast.  I  implored  her  forgiveness.  I  besought  her 
to  look  up.  I  ravaged  Miss  Mills's  work-box  for  a  smelling- 
bottle,  and  in  my  agony  of  mind  applied  an  ivory  needle- 
case  instead,  and  dropped  all  the  needles  over  Dora.  I 
shook  my  fists  at  Jip,  who  was  as  frantic  as  myself.  I  did 
every  wild  extravagance  that  could  be  done,  and  was  a  long 
way  beyond  the  end  of  my  wits  when  Miss  Mills  came  into 
the  room. 

"  Who  has  done  this?"  exclaimed  Miss  Mills,  succoring 
her  friend.  I  replied,  "/,  Miss  Mills!  /  have  done  it! 
Behold  the  destroyer!" — or  words  to  that  effect — and  hid 
my  face  from  the  light,  in  the  sofa  cushion. 

At  first  Miss  Mills  thought  it  was  a  quarrel,  and  that  we 
were  verging  on  the  Desert  of  Sahara;  but  she  soon  found 
out  how  matters  stood,  for  my  dear  affectionate  little  Dora, 
embracing  her,  began  explaining  that  I  was  "a  poor 
laborer;"  and  then  cried  for  me,  and  asked  me  would  I  let 
her  give  me  all  her  money  to  keep,  and  then  fell  on  Miss 
Mills's  neck,  sobbing  as  if  her  tender  heart  were  broken. 

Miss  Mills  must  have  been  born  to  be  a  blessing  to  us. 
She  ascertained  from  me  in  a  few  words  what  it  was  all  about, 
comforted  Dora,  and  gradually  convinced  her  that  I  was 
not  a  laborer — from  my  manner  of  stating  the  case  I  believe 
Dora  concluded  that  I  was  a  navigator,  and  went  balancing 
myself  up  and  down  a  plank  all  day  with  a  wheelbarrow — 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  537 

and  so  brought  us  together  in  peace.  When  we  were  quite 
composed,  and  Dora  had  gone  up-stairs  to  put  some  rose- 
water  to  her  eyes,  Miss  Mills  rang  for  tea.  In  the  ensuing 
interval,  I  told  Miss  Mills  that  she  was  evermore  my  friend, 
and  that  my  heart  must  cease  to  vibrate  ere  I  could  for- 
get her  sympathy. 

I  then  expounded  to  Miss  Mills  what  I  had  endeavored,  so 
,very  unsucessfuUy,  to  expound  to  Dora.  Miss  Mills  re- 
plied, on  general  principles,  that  the  Cottage  of  content  was 
better  than  the  Palace  of  cold  splendor,  and  that  where 
love  was,  all  was. 

I  said  to  Miss  Mills  that  this  was  very  true,  and  who  should 
know  it  better  than  I,  who  loved  Dora  with  a  love  that  never 
mortal  had  experienced  yet.  But  on  Miss  Mills  observing, 
with  despondency,  that  it  were  well  indeed  for  some  hearts 
if  it  were  so,  I  explained  that  I  begged  leave  to  restrict  the 
observation  to  mortals  of  the  masculine  gender. 

I  then  put  it  to  Miss  Mills,  to  say  whether  she  considered 
that  there  was  or  was  not  any  practical  merit  in  the  sugges- 
tion I  had  been  anxious  to  make,  concerning  the  accounts, 
the  housekeeping,  and  the  Cookery  Book. 

Miss  Mills,  after  some  consideration,  thus  replied  : 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  will  be  plain  with  you.  Mental  suf- 
fering and  trial  supply,  in  some  natures,  the  place  of  years, 
and  I  will  be  as  plain  with  you  as  if  I  were  a  Lady  Abbess.  No. 
The  suggestion  is  not  appropriate  to  our  Dora.  Our  dearest 
Dora  is  a  favorite  child  of  nature.  She  is  a  thing  of  light, 
and  airiness,  and  joy.  I  am  free  to  confess  that  if  it  could 
be  done,  it  might  be  well,  but — "  And  Miss  Mills  shook 
her  head. 

I  was  encouraged  by  this  closing  admission  on  the  part  of 
Miss  Mills  to  ask  her,  whether,  for  Dora's  sake,  if  she  had 
any  opportunity  of  luring  her  attention  to  such  preparations 
for  an  earnest  life,  she  would  avail  herself  o^  it  ?  Mjss  Mills 
replied  in  the  affirmative  so  readily,  that  I  further  asked  her 
if  she  would  take  charge  of  the  Cookery  Book,  and,  if  she 
ever  could  insinuate  it  upon  Dora's  acceptance,  without 
frightening  her,  undertake  to  do  me  that  crowning  service. 
Miss  Mills  accepted  this  trust,  too;  but  was  not  sanguine. 

And  Dora  returned,  looking  such  a  lovely  little  creature, 
that  I  really  doubted  whether  she  ought  to  be  troubled  with 
anything  so  ordinary.  And  she  loved  me  so  much,  and  was 
so  captivating,  (particularly  when  she  made  Jip  stand  on  his 


538  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

hind  legs  for  toast,  and  when  she  pretended  to  hold  that 
nose  of  his  against  the  hot  tea-pot  for  punishment  because 
he  wouldn't),  that  I  felt  like  a  sort  of  Monster  who  had  got 
into  a  Fairy's  bower,  when  I  thought  of  having  frightened 
her,  and  made  her  cry. 

After  tea  we  had  the  guitar  ;  and  Dora  sang  those  same 
dear  old  French  songs  about  the  impossibility  of  ever  on 
any  account  leaving  off  dancing.  La  ra  la,  La  ra  la,  until  I 
felt  a  much  greater  Monster  than  before. 

We  had  only  one  check  to  our  pleasure,  and  that  happened 
a  little  while  before  I  took  my  leave,  when,  Miss  Mills 
chancing  to  make  some  allusion  to  to-morrow  morning,  I 
unluckily  let  out  that  being  obliged  to  exert  myself  now,  I 
got  up  at  five  o'clock.  Whether  Dora  had  any  idea  that  I 
was  a  Private  Watchman,  I  am  unable  to  say;  but  it  made  a 
great  impression  on  her,  and  she  neither  played  nor  sang 
any  more.  It  was  still  on  her  mind  when  I  bade  her  adieu; 
and  she  said  to  me,  in  her  pretty  coaxing  way — as  if  I  were 
a  doll,  I  used  to  think  ! 

"  Now  don't  get  up  at  five  o'clock,  you  naughty  boy.  It's 
so  nonsensical !" 

"  My  love,"  said  I,  "  I  have  work  to  do." 

*'  But  don't  do  it !"  returned  Dora.     ''  Why  should  you  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  say  to  that  sweet  little  surprised  face, 
otherwise  than  lightly  and  playfully,  that  we  must  work,  to 
live. 

"Oh  !  How  ridiculous  !"  cried  Dora. 

"  How  shall  we  live  without,  Dora  ?"  said  I. 

"  How  !     Any  how  !"  said  Dora. 

She  seemed  to  think  she  had  quite  settled  the  question. 
and  gave  me  such  a  triumphant  little  kiss,  direct  from  her 
innocent  heart,  that  I  would  hardly  have  put  her  out  of 
conceit  with  her  answer,  for  a  fortune. 

Well !  I  loved  her,  and  I  went  on  loving  her,  most  absorb- 
ingly, entirely,  and  completely.  But  going  on,  too,  working 
pretty  hard,  and  busily  keeping  red-hrl  all  the  irons  I  now 
had  in  the  fire,  I  would  sit  sometimes  of  a  night,  opposite 
my  aunt,  thinking  how  I  had  frightened  Dora  that  time,  and 
how  I  could  best  make  my  way  with  a  guitar-case  through 
the  forest  of  difficulty,  until  I  used  to  fancy  that  my  head 
was  turning  quite  gray. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  539 

CHAPTER     XXXVIII. 

A    DISSOLUTION    OF    PARTNERSHIP. 

I  DID  not  allow  my  resolution  with  respect  to  the  Parlia- 
mentary Debates,  to  cool.  It  was  one  of  the  irons  I  began 
to  heat  immediately,  and  oiie  of  the  irons  I  kept  hot,  and 
hammered  at,  with  a  perseverance  1  may  honestly  admire.  I 
bought  an  approved  scheme  of  the  noble  art  and  mystery  of 
stenography  (which  cost  me  ten  and  sixpence);  and  plunged 
into  a  sea  of  perplexity  that  brought  me,  in  a  few  weeks,  to 
the  confines  of  distraction.  The  changes  that  were  rung 
upon  dots,  which  in  such  a  position  meant  such  a  thing,  and 
in  such  another  position  something  else,  entirely  different; 
the  wonderful  vagaries  that  were  played  by  circles;  the  un- 
accountable consequences  that  resulted  from  marks  like 
flies'  legs;  the  tremendous  effects  of  a  curve  in  a  wrong 
place;  not  only  troubled  my  waking  hours,  but  appeared  be- 
fore me  in  my  sleep.  When  I  had  groped  my  way,  blindly, 
through  these  difficulties,  and  had  mastered  the  alphabet, 
which  was  an  Egyptian  Temple  in  itself,  there  then  ap- 
peared a  procession  of  new  horrors,  called  arbitrary  char- 
acters; the  most  despotic  characters  I  have  ever  known; 
who  insisted,  for  instance,  that  a  thing  like  the  beginning  of 
a  cobweb,  meant  expectation,  and  that  a  pen  and  ink  sky- 
rocket stood  for  disadvantageous.  When  I  had  fixed  these 
wretches  in  my  mind,  I  found  that  they  had  driven  every- 
thing else  out  of  it;  then,  beginning  again,  I  forgot  them; 
while  I  was  picking  them  up,  I  dropped  the  other  fragments 
of  the  system;  in  short,  it  was  almost  heart-breaking. 

It  might  have  been  quite  heart-breaking,  but  for  Dora, 
who  was  the  stay  and  anchor  of  my  tempest-driven  bark. 
Every  scratch  in  the  scheme  -was  a  gnarled  oak  in  the 
forest  of  difficulty,  and  I  went  on  cutting  them  down,  one 
after  another,  with  such  vigor,  that  in  three  or  four  months 
I  was  in  a  condition  to  make  an  experiment  on  one  of  our 
crack  speakers  in  the  Commons.  Shall  I  ever  forget  how 
the  crack  speaker  walked  off  from  me  before  I  began,  and 
left  my  imbecile  pencil  staggering  about  the  paper  as  if  it 
were  in  a  fit! 

This  would  never  do,  it  was  quite  clear.  I  was  flying  too 
high,  and  should  never  get  on,  so.     I  resorted  to  Traddles 


540  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

for  advice,  who  suggested  that  he  should  dictate  speeches 
to  me,  at  a  pace,  and  with  occasional  stoppages,  adapted  to 
my  weakness.  Very  grateful  for  this  friendly  aid,  I  accept- 
ed the  proposal;  and  night  after  night,  almost  every  night, 
for  a  long  time,  we  had  a  sort  of  private  Parliament  in 
Buckingham  Street,  after  I  came  home  from  the  Doctor's. 

I  should  like  to  see  such  a  Parliament  anywhere  else!  My 
aunt  and  Mr. Dick  represented  theGovernment  or  the  Opposi- 
tion (as  the  case  might  be),  and  Traddles,  with  the  assistance 
of  Enfield's  Speaker  or  a  volume  of  parliamentary  orations, 
thundered  astonishing  invectives  against  them.  Standing 
by  the  table,  with  his  finger  in  the  page  to  keep  the  place, 
and  his  right  arm  flourishing  above  his  head,  Traddles,  as 
Mr.  Pitt,  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Burke,  Lord  Castle- 
reagh,  Viscount  Sidmouth,  or  Mr.  Canning,  would  work 
himself  into  the  most  violent  heats,  and  deliver 
the  most  withering  denunciations  of  the  profligacy 
and  corruption  of  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick;  while  I  used 
to  sit,  at  a  Httle  distance,  my  note-book  on  my  knee, 
fagging  after  him  with  all  my  might  and  main.  The 
inconsistency  and  recklessness  of  Traddles  were  not  to  be 
exceeded  by  any  real  politician.  He  was  for  any  descrip- 
tion of  policy,  in  the  compass  of  a  week;  and  nailed  all  sorts 
of  colors  to  every  denomination  of  mast.  My  aunt,  looking 
very  like  an  immovable  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  would 
occasionally  throw  in  an  interruption  or  two,  as  ''  Hear  !" 
or  "No!"  or  "Oh!"  when  the  text  seemed  to  require  it: 
which  was  always  a  signal  to  Mr.  Dick  (a  perfect  country 
gentleman)  to  follow  lustily  with  the  same  cry.  But  Mr. 
Dick  got  taxed  with  such  things  during  his  Parliamentary 
career,  and  was  made  responsible  for  such  awful  consequen- 
ces, that  he  became  uncomfortable  in  his  mind  sometimes. 
I  believe  he  actually  began  to  be  afraid  he  really  had  been 
doing  something,  tending  to  the  annihilation  of  the  British 
constitution,  and  the  ruin  of  the  country. 

Often  and  often  we  pursued  these  debates  until  the  clock 
pointed  to  midnight,  and  the  candles  were  burning  down. 
The  result  of  so  much  good  practice  was,  that  by-and-by  I 
began  to  keep  pace  with  Traddles  pretty  well,  and  should 
have  been  quite  triumphant  if  I  had  had  the  least  idea  what 
my  notes  were  about.  But,  as  to  reading  them  after  I  had 
got  them,  I  might  as  well  have  copied  the  Chinese  inscrip- 
tions on  an  immense  collection  of  tea-chests,  or  the  golden 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  541 

characters  on  all  the  great  red  and  green  bottles  in  the 
chemists'  shops  ! 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  but  to  turn  back  and  begin  all 
over  again.  It  was  very  hard,  but  I  turned  back,  though 
with  a  heavy  heart,  and  began  laboriously  and  methodically 
to  plod  over  the  same  tedious  ground  at  a  snail's  pace;  stop- 
ping to  examine  minutely  every  speck  in  the  way,  on  all 
sides,  and  making  the  most  desperate  efforts  to  know  these 
elusive  characters  by  sight  wherever  I  met  them.  I  was 
always  punctual  at  the  office;  at  the  Doctor's  too;  and  I 
really  did  work,as  the  common  expression  is,  like  a  cart-horse. 

One  day,  when  I  went  to  the  Commons  as  usual,  I  found 
Mr.  Spenlow  in  the  doorway  looking  extremely  grave,  and 
talking  to  himself.  As  he  was  in  the  habit  of  complaining 
of  pains  in  his  head — he  had  naturally  a  short  throat,  and  I 
do  seriously  believe  he  overstarched  himself — I  was  at  first 
alarmed  at  the  idea  that  he  was  not  quite  right  in  that  direc- 
tion; but  he  soon  relieved  my  uneasiness. 

Instead  of  returning  my  "  Good  morning'*  with  his  usual 
affabiUty,  he  looked  at  me  in  a  distant,  ceremonious  manner, 
and  coldly  requested  me  to  accompany  him  to  a  certain 
coffee-house,  which  in  those  days,  had  a  door  opening  into 
the  Commons,  just  within  the  little  archway  in  St  Paul's 
churchyard.  I  complied,  in  a  very  uncomfortable  state,  and 
with  a  warm  shooting  all  over  me,  as  if  my  apprehension 
were  breaking  out  into  buds.  When  I  allowed  him  to  go 
on  a  little  before,  on  account  of  the  narrowness  of  the  way, 
I  observed  that  he  carried  his  head  with  a  lofty  air  that  was 
particularly  umpromising;  and  my  mind  misgave  me  that  he 
had  found  out  about  my  darling  Dora. 

If  I  had  not  guessed  this,  on  the  way  to  the  coffee-house, 
I  could  hardly  have  failed  to  know  what  was  the  matter 
when  I  followed  him  into  an  up-stairs  room,  and  found  Miss 
Murdstone  there,  supported  by  a  back-ground  of  sideboard, 
on  which  were  several  inverted  tumblers  sustaining  lemons, 
and  two  of  those  extraordinary  boxes,  all  corners  and  fiut- 
ings,  for  sticking  knives  and  forks  in,  which,  happily  for 
mankind,  are  now  obsolete. 

Miss  Murdstone  gave  me  her  chilly  finger-nails,  and  sat 
severely  rigid.  Mr.  Spenlow  shut  the  door,  motioned  me  to 
a  chair,  and  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  in  front  of  the  fire-place. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  show  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Spenlow,  "  what  you  have  in  your  reticule,  Miss  Murdstone/* 


542  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

I  believe  it  was  the  old  identical  steel-clasped  reticule 
of  my  childhood,  that  shut  up  like  a  bite.  Compressing  her 
lips,  in  sympathy  with  the  snap.  Miss  Murdstone  opened  it 
— opening  her  mouth  a  little  at  the  same  time — and  pro- 
duced my  last  letter  to  Dora,  teeming  with  expressions  of 
devoted  affection. 

''  I  believe  that  is  your  writing,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?"  said 
Mr.  Spenlow. 

I  was  very  hot,  and  the  voice  I  heard  was  very  unlike 
mine,  when  I  said,  "  It  is,  sir  !" 

''  If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  as  Miss  Murd- 
stone brought  a  parcel  of  letters  out  of  her  reticule,  tied 
around  with  the  dearest  bit  of  blue  ribbon,  "  those  are  also 
from  your  pen,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?" 

I  took  them  from  her  with  a  most  desolate  sensation;  and, 
glancing  at  such  phrases  at  the  top,  as  "  My  ever  dearest 
and  own  Dora,"  *'  My  best  and  beloved  angel,"  "  My  blessed 
one  for  ever,"and  the  like,  blushed  deeply,  and  inclined  my 
head. 

"  No,  thank  you  !"  said  Mr.  Spenlow  coldly,  as  I  mechan . 
ically  offered  them  back  to  him.  "  I  will  not  deprive  you 
of  them.     Miss  Murdstone,  be  so  good  as  to  proceed  !" 

That  gentle  creature,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful  survey 
of  the  carpet,  delivered  herself  with  much  dry  unction  as 
follows: 

"  I  must  confess  to  having  entertained  my  suspicions  of 
Miss  Spenlow,  in  reference  to  David  Copperfield,  for  some 
time.  I  observed  Miss  Spenlow  and  David  Copperfield, 
when  they  first  met;  and  the  impression  made  upon  me 
then  was  not  agreeable.  The  depravity  of  the  human  heart 
is  such " 

"  You  will  oblige  me,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Mr.  Spenlow, 
"  by  confining  yourself  to  facts." 

Miss  Murdstone  cast  down  her  eyes,  shook  her  head  as  if 
protesting  against  this  unseemly  interruption,  and  with 
frowning  dignity  resumed: 

"  Since  I  am  to  confine  myself  to  facts,  I  will  state  them 
as  dryly  as  I  can.  Perhaps  that  will  be  considered  an  ac- 
ceptable course  of  proceeding.  I  have  already  said,  sir,  that  I 
have  had  my  suspicions  of  Miss  Spenlow,in  reference  to  David 
Copperfield,  for  some  time.  I  have  frequently  endeavored 
to  find  decisive  corroboration  of  those  suspicions,  but  with- 
out effect.     I  have  therefore  forborne  to  mention  them  to 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  543 

Miss  Spenlow's  father;"  looking  severely  at  him;  "  knowing 
how  little  disposition  there  usually  is  in  such  cases,  to  acknow- 
ledge the  conscientious  discharge  of  duty." 

Mr.  Spenlow  seemed  quite  cowed  by  the  gentlemanly 
sternness  of  Miss  Murdstone's  manner,  and  deprecated  her 
severity  with  a  conciliatory  little  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  On  my  return  to  Norwood,  after  the  period  of  absence 
occasioned  by  my  brother's  marriage,"  pursued  Miss  Murd- 
stone  in  a  disdainful  voice,  '^  and  on  the  return  of  Miss 
Spenlow  from  her  visit  to  her  friend  Miss  Mills,  I  imagined 
that  the  manner  of  Miss  Spenlow  gave  me  greater  occasion 
for  suspicion  than  before.  Therefore  I  watched  Miss  Spen- 
low closely." 

Dear,  tender  little  Dora,  so  unconscious  of  this  Dragon's 
eye! 

"  Still,"  resumed  Miss  Murdstone,  "  I  found  no  proof  un- 
til last  night.  It  appeared  to  me  that  Miss  Spenlow  received 
too  many  letters  from  her  friend  Miss  Mills;  but  Miss  Mills 
being  her  friend  with  her  father's  full  concurrence,"  another 
telling  blow  at  Mr.  Spenlow,  "  it  was  not  for  me  to  interfere. 
If  I  may  not  be  permitted  to  allude  to  the  natural  depravity 
of  the  human  heart,  at  least  I  may — I  must — be  permitted, 
so  far,  to  refer  to  misplaced  confidence." 

Mr.  Spenlow  apologetically  murmured  his  assent. 

"  Last  evening  after  tea,"  pursued  Miss  Murdstone,  "  I 
observed  the  little  dog  starting,  rolling  and  growling  about 
the  drawing-room,  worrying  something.  I  said  to  Miss 
Spenlow,  '  Dora,  what  is  that  the  dog  has  in  his  mouth? 
It's  paper.'  Miss  Spenlow  immediately  put  her  hand  to  her 
frock,  gave  a  sudden  cry,  and  ran  to  the  dog.  I  intef^osed, 
and  said,  '  Dora  my  love,  you  must  permit  me.'  " 

Oh  Jip,  miserable  Spaniel,  the  wretchedness,  then,  was 
your  work! 

"  Miss  Spenlow  endeavored,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  *'  to 
bribe  me  with  kisses,  work-boxes,  and  small  articles  of  jewel- 
ry— that  of  course,  I  pass  over.  The  little  dog  retreated 
under  the  sofa  on  my  approaching  him,  and  was  with  great 
difficulty  dislodged  by  the  fire-irons.  Even  when  dislodged, 
he  still  kept  the  letter  in  his  mouth;  and  on  my  endeavor- 
ing to  take  it  from  him,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  being  bitten, 
he  kept  it  between  his  teeth  so  pertinaciously  as  to  suffer 
himself  to  be  held  suspended  in  the  air  by  means  of  the 
document.     At  length  I  obtained  possession  of  it.     After 


544  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

perusing  it,  I  taxed  Miss  Spenlow  with  having  many  such 
letters  in  her  possession;  and  ultimately  obtained  from  her 
the  packet  which  is  now  in  David  Copperfield's  hand." 

Here  she  ceased;  and  snapping  her  reticule  again,  and 
shutting  her  mouth,  looked  as  if  she  might  be  broken,  but 
could  never  be  bent. 

"  You  have  heard  Miss  Murdstone,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow, 
turning  to  me.  "  I  beg  to  ask,  Mr.  Copperfield,  if  you  have 
anything  to  say  in  reply?" 

The  picture  I  had  before  me,  of  the  beautiful  little  trea- 
sure of  my  heart,  sobbing  and  crying  all  night — of  her  being 
alone,  frightened,  and  wretched,  then  of  her  having  so 
piteously  begged  and  prayed  that  stony-hearted  woman  to 
forgive  her — of  her  having  vainly  offered  her  those  kisses, 
work-boxes,  and  trinkets — of  her  being  in  such  grievous  dis- 
tress, and  all  for  me — very 'much  impaired  the  little  dignity 
I  had  been  able  to  muster.  1  am  afraid  I  was  in  a  tremulous 
state  for  a  minute  or  so,  though  I  did  my  best  to  disguise  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  can  say,  sir,"  I  returned,  "  except 
that  all  the  blame  is  mine.     Dora — " 

"  Miss  Spenlow,  if  you  please,"  said  her  father,  majestically, 

" — was  induced  and  persuaded  by  me,"  I  went  on,  swal- 
lowing that  colder  designation,  "  to  consent  to  this  conceal- 
ment, and  I  bitterly  regret  it." 

"  You  are  very  much  to  blame,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow, 
walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  hearth-rug,  and  emphasizing 
what  he  said  with  his  whole  body  instead  of  his  head,  on 
account  of  the  stiffness  of  his  cravat  and  spine.  "  You  have 
done  a  stealthy  and  unbecoming  action,  Mr.  Copperfield. 
When  I  take  a  gentleman  to  my  house,  no  matter  whether 
he  is  nineteen,  twenty-nine,  or  ninety,  I  take  him  there  in  a 
spirit  of  confidence.  If  he  abuses  my  confidence,  he  com- 
mits a  dishonorable  action,  Mr.  Copperfield." 

"  I  feel  it,  sir,  I  assure  you,"  I  returned.  "  But  I  never 
tnought  so,  before.  Sincerely,  honestly,  indeed,  Mr.  Spen- 
low, I  never  thought  so  before.  I  love  Miss  Spenlow  to 
that  extent — " 

"  Pooh!  nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  reddening.  "  Pray 
don't  tell  me  to  my  face  that  you  love  my  daughter,  Mr. 
Copperfield!" 

"  Could  I  defend  my  conduct  if  I  did  not,  sir?"  I  re- 
turned, with  all  humility. 

"  Can  you  defend  your  conduct  if  you  do,  sir?"  said  Mr. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  545 

Spenlovv,  stopping  short  upon  the  hearth-rug.  **  Have  yon 
considered  your  years,  and  my  daughter's  years,  Mr.  Cop- 
perfield?  Have  you  considered  what  it  is  to  undermine  the 
confidence  that  should  subsist  between  my  daughter  and 
myself?  Have  you  considered  my  daughter's  station  in  life, 
the  projects  I  may  contemplate  for  her  advancement,  the 
testamentary  intentions  I  may  have  with  reference  to  her  ? 
Have  you  considered  anything,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?" 

"  Very  little,  sir,  I  am  afraid;"  I  answered,  speaking  to 
him  as  respectfully  and  sorrowfully  as  I  felt;  "  but  pray  be- 
lieve me,  I  have  considered  my  own  worldly  position. 
When  I  explained  it  to  you,  we  were  already  engaged — " 

*'  I  BEG,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  more  like  Punch  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him,  as  he  energetically  struck  one  hand  upon  the 
other — I  could  not  help  noticing  that  even  in  my  despair; 
"  that  you  will  not  talk  to  me  of  engagements,  Mr.  Copper- 
field!" 

The  otherwise  immovable  Miss  Murdstone  laughed  con- 
temptuously in  one  short  syllable. 

"  When  I  explained  my  altered  position  to  you,  sir,**  I 
began  again,  substituting  a  new  form  of  expression  for  what 
was  so  unpalatable  to  him,  "  this  concealment,  into  which 
I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  have  led  Miss  Spenlow,  had  begun. 
Since  I  have  been  in  that  altered  position,  I  have  strained 
every  nerve,  I  have  exerted  every  energy,  to  improve  it.  I 
am  sure  I  shall  improve  it  in  time.  Will  you  grant  me  time — 
any  length  of  time  ?    We  are  both  so  young,  sir, — " 

"  You  are  right,"  interrupted  Mr.  Spenlow,  nodding  his 
head  a  great  many  times,  and  frowning  very  much,  '*  you 
are  both  very  young.  It's  all  nonsense.  Let  there  be  an  end 
of  the  nonsense.  Take  away  those  letters,  and  throw  them 
in  the  fire.  Give  me  Miss  Spenlow's  letters  to  throw  in  the 
fire;  and  although  our  future  intercourse  must,  you  are 
aware,  be  restricted  to  the  Commons  here,  we  will  agree  to 
make  no  further  mention  of  the  past.  Come,  Mr.  Copper- 
field,  you  don't  want  sense;  and  this  is  the  sensible  course." 

No.  I  couldn't  think  of  agreeing  to  it.  I  was  very  sor- 
ry, but  there  was  a  higher  consideration  than  sense.  Love 
was  above  all  earthly  considerations,  and  I  loved  Dora  to 
Idolatry,  and  Dora  loved  me.  I  didn't  exactly  say  so;  I 
softened  it  down  as  much  as  I  could;  but  I  implied  it,  and 
I  was  resolute  upon  it.  I  don't  think  I  made  myself  very 
ridiculous,  but  I  know  I  was  resolute. 


54<5  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  "I 
must  try  my  influence  with  my  daughter." 

Miss  Murdstone,  by  an  expressive  sound,  a  long-drawn 
respiration,  which  was  neither  a  sigh  nor  a  moan,  but  was 
like  both,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  he  should  have  done 
this  at  first. 

"  I  must  try,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  confirmed  by  this  sup- 
port, "  my  influence  with  my  daughter.  Do  you  decline  to 
take  those  letters,  Mr.  Copperfield .?"  For  I  had  laid  .them 
on  the  table. 

Yes.  I  told  him  I  hoped  he  would  not  think  it  wrong, 
but  I  couldn't  possibly  take  them  from  Miss  Murdstone. 

"  Nor  from  me  .'*"  said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

No,  I  replied  with  the  profoundest  respect;  nor  from 
him. 

"Very  well!"  said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

A  silence  succeeding,  I  was  undecided  whether  to  go  or 
stay.  At  length  I  was  moving  quietly  towards  the  door, 
with  the  intention  of  saying  that  perhaps  I  should  consult 
his  feelings  best  by  withdrawing;  when  he  said,  with  his 
hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  into  which  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  get  them;  and  with  what  I  should  call,  upon  the 
whole,  a  decidedly  pious  air: 

"  You  are  probably  aware,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  I  am  not 
altogether  destitute  of  worldly  possessions,  and  that  my 
daughter  is  my  nearest  and  dearest  relative?" 

I  hurriedly  made  him  a  reply  to  the  effect,  that  I  hoped 
the  error  into  which  I  had  been  betrayed  by  the  desperate 
nature  of  my  love,  did  not  induce  him  to  think  me  mer- 
cenary too  ? 

'*I  don't  allude  to  the  matter  in  that  light,"  said  Mr. 
Spenlow.  *'  It  would  be  better  for  yourself,  and  all  of  us,  if 
you  were  mercenary,  Mr.  Copperfield — I  mean,  if  you  were 
more  discreet  and  less  influenced  by  all  this  youthful  non- 
sense. No.  I  merely  say,  with  quite  another  view,  you  are 
probably  aware  I  have  some  property  to  bequeath  to  my 
child?" 

I  certainly  supposed  so. 

"And  you  can  hardly  think,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  "having 
experience  of  what  we  see,  in  the  Commons  here,  every  day, 
of  the  various  unaccountable  and  negligent  proceedings  of 
men,  in  respect  of  their  testamentary  arrangements — of  all 
subjects,  the  one  on  which  perhaps  the  strangest  revelations 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  54^ 

of  human  inconsistency  are  to  be  met  with — but  that  mine 
are  made." 

I  inclined  my  head  in  acquiescence. 

"I  should  not  allow,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  with  an  evident 
increase  of  pious  sentiment,  and  slowly  shaking  his  head  as 
he  poised  himself  upon  his  toes  and  heels  alternately,  "  my 
suitable  provision  for  my  child  to  be  influenced  by  a  piece 
of  youthful  folly,  like  the  present.  It  is  mere  folly.  Mere 
nonsense.  In  a  little  while,  it  will  weigh  lighter  than  any 
feather.  But  I  might — I  might — if  this  silly  business  were 
not  completely  relinquished  altogether,  be  induced  in  some 
anxious  moment  to  guard  her  from,  and  surround  her  with 
protections  against  the  consequences  of,  any  foolish  step  in 
the  way  of  marriage.  Now,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  hope  you 
will  not  render  it  necessary  for  me  to  open,  even  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  that  closed  page  in  the  book  of  life, 
and  unsettle,  even  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  grave  affairs 
long  since  composed." 

There  was  a  serenity,  a  tranquillity,  a  calm-sunset  air 
about  him,  which  quite  affected  me.  He  was  so  peaceful 
and  resigned — clearly  had  his  affairs  in  such  perfect  train, 
and  so  systematically  wound  up — that  he  was  a  man  to  feel 
touched  in  the  contemplation  of.  I  really  think  I  saw  tears 
rise  to  his  eyes,  from  the  depth  of  his  own  feeling  of  all  this. 

But  what  could  I  do  ?  I  could  not  deny  Dora  and  my 
own  heart.  When  he  told  me  I  had  better  take  a  week  to 
consider  of  what  he  had  said,  how  could  I  say  I  wouldn't 
take  a  week,  yet  how  could  I  fail  to  know  that  no  amount  of 
weeks  could  influence  such  a  love  as  mine  ? 

"  In  the  meantime,  confer  with  Miss  Trotwood,  or  with 
any  person  with  any  knowledge  of  life,"  said  Mr.  Spenlow, 
adjusting  his  cravat  with  both  hands.  "  Take  a  week,  Mr. 
Copperfield." 

I  submitted;  and,  with  a  countenance  as  expressive  as  1 
was  able  to  make  it  of  dejected  and  despairing  constancy, 
came  out  of  the  room.  Miss  Murdstone's  heavy  eyebrows 
followed  me  to  the  door — I  say  her  eyebrows  rather  than 
her  eyes,  because  they  were  much  more  important  in  hei 
face — and  she  looked  so  exactly  as  she  used  to  look,  a\ 
about  that  hour  of  the  morning,  in  our  parlor  at  Blunder- 
stone,  that  I  could  have  fancied  that  I  had  been  breaking 
down  in  my  lessons  again,  and  that  the  dead  weight  on  my 
mind  was  that  horrible  old  spelling-book,  with  oval  wood- 


548  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

cuts,  shaped,  to  my  youthful  fancy,  like  the  glasses  out  of 
spectacles. 

When  I  got  to  the  office,  and,  shutting  out  old  Tiffey  and 
the  rest  of  them  with  my  hands,  sat  at  my  desk,  in  my  own 
particular  nook,  thinking  of  this  earthquake  that  had  taken 
place  so  unexpectedly,  and  in  the  bitterness  of  my  spirit 
cursing  Jip,  I  fell  into  such  a  state  of  torment  about  Dora, 
that  I  wonder  I  did  not  take  up  my  hat  and  rush  insanely 
to  Norwood.  The  idea  of  their  frightening  her,  and  making 
her  cry,  and  my  not  being  there  to  comfort  her,  was  so  ex  - 
cruciating,  that  it  impelled  me  to  write  a  wild  letter  to  Mr. 
Spenlow,  beseeching  him  not  to  visit  upon  her  the  conse- 
quences of  my  awful  destiny.  I  implored  him  to  spare  her 
gentle  nature — not  to  crush  a  fragile  flower—  and  addressed 
him  generally,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance,  as  if,  instead 
of  being  her  father,  he  had  been  an  Ogre,  or  the  Dragon  of 
Wantley.  This  letter  I  sealed  and  laid  upon  his  desk  be- 
fore he  returned;  and  when  he  came  in,  I  saw  him,  through 
the  half-opened  door  of  his  room,  take  it  up  and  read  it. 

He  said  nothing  about  it  all  the  morning;  but  before  he 
went  away  in  the  afternoon  he  called  me  in,  and  told  me 
that  I  need  not  make  myself  at  all  uneasy  about  his  daugh- 
ter's happiness.  He  had  assured  her,  he  said,  that  it  was 
all  nonsense;  and  had  nothing  more  to  say  to  her.  He  be- 
lieved he  was  an  indulgent  father  (as  indeed  he  was),  and  I 
might  spare  myself  any  solicitude  on  her  account. 

"  You  may  make  it  necessary,  if  you  are  foolish  and  ob- 
stinate, Mr.  Copperfield,"  he  observed,  *'  for  me  to  send  my 
daughter  abroad  again,  for  a  term;  but  I  have  a  better 
opinion  of  you.  I  hope  you  will  be  wiser  than  that,  in  a 
few  days.  As  to  Miss  Murdstone,"  for  I  had  alluded  to 
her  in  the  letter,  "  I  respect  that  lady's  vigilance,  and  feel 
obliged  to  her;  but  she  has  strict  charge  to  avoid  the  subject. 
All  I  desire,  Mr.  Copperfield,  is,  that  it  should  be  forgotten. 
All  you  have  got  to  do,  Mr.  Copperfield,  is,  to  forget  it." 

All !  In  the  note  I  wrote  to  Miss  Mills,  I  bitterly  quoted 
this  sentiment.  All  I  had  to  do,  I  said,  with  gloomy  sar- 
casm, was  to  forget  Dora.  That  was  all,  and  what  was  that! 
I  entreated  Miss  Mills  to  see  me,  that  evening.  If  it  could 
not  be  done  with  Mr.  Mills's  sanction  and  concurrence,  I 
besought  a  clandestine  interview  in  the  back  kitchen  where 
the  Mangle  was.  I  informed  her  that  my  reason  was  totter- 
ing on  its  throne,  and  only  she,   Miss  Mills,  could  prevent 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  ^^^ 

its  being  deposed.  I  signed  myself,  hers  distractedly:  and 
1  couldn't  help  feeling,  when  I  read  this  composition  over, 
before  sending  it  by  a  porter,  that  it  was  something  in  the 
style  of  Mr.  Micawber. 

However,  I  sent  it.  At  night  I  repaired  to  Miss  Mills's 
street,  and  walked  up  and  down,until  I  was  stealthily  fetched 
in  by  Miss  Mills's  maid,  and  taken  the  area  way  to  the  back 
kitchen.  I  have  since  seen  reason  to  believe  that  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  my  going  in  at  the  front  door, 
and  being  shown  up  into  the  drawing-room,  except  Miss 
Mills's  love  of  the  romantic  and  mysterious. 

In  the  back  kitchen,  I  raved  as  became  me.  I  went  there, 
I  suppose,  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  and  I  am  quite  sure  I 
did  it.  Miss  Mills  had  received  a  hasty  note  from  Dora, 
telling  her  that  all  was  discovered,  and  saying,  "  Oh  pray 
come  to  me,  Julia,  do,  do  !"  But  Miss  Mills,  mistrusting 
the  acceptability  of  her  presence  to  the  higher  powers,  had 
not  yet  gone;  and  we  were  all  benighted  in  the  Desert  of 
Sahara. 

Miss  Mills  had  a  wonderful  flow  of  words,  and  liked  to 
pour  them  out.  I  could  not  help  feeling,  though. she  mingled 
her  tears  with  mine,  that  she  had  a  dreadful  luxury  in  our 
afflictions.  She  petted  them,  as  I  may  say,  and  made  the 
most  of  them.  A  deep  gulf,  she  observed,  had  opened  be- 
tween Dora  and  me,  and  Love  could  only  span  it  with  its 
rainbow.  Love  must  suffer  in  this  stern  world;  it  ever  had 
been  so,  it  ever  would  be  so.  No  matter,  Miss  Mills  re- 
marked. Hearts  confined  by  cobwebs  would  burst  at  last, 
and  then  Love  was  avenged. 

This  was  small  consolation,  but  Miss  Mills  wouldn't  en- 
courage fallacious  hopes.  She  made  me  much  more 
wretched  than  I  was  before,  and  I  felt  (and  told  her  with 
the  deepest  gratitude)  that  she  was  indeed  a  friend.  We 
resolved  that  she  should  go  to  Dora  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  and  find  some  means  of  assuring  her,  either  by 
looks  or  words,  of  my  devotion  and  misery.  We  parted, 
overwhelmed  with  grief;  and  I  think  Miss  Mills  enjoyed 
herself  completely. 

I  confided  all  to  my  aunt  when  I  got  home;  and  in  spite 
of  all  she  could  say  to  me,  went  to  bed  despairing.  I  got 
up  despairing,  and  went  out  despairing.  It  was  Saturday 
morning,  and  I  went  straight  to  the  Commons. 

I  was  surprised,  when  I  came  within  sight  of  our  office- 


550  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

door  to  see  the  ticket-porters  standing  outside  talking 
together,  and  some  half-dozen  stragglers  gazing  at  the  win- 
dows which  were  &hut  up.  I  quickened  my  pace,  and,  pas- 
sing among  them,  wondering  at  their  looks,  went  hurriedly  in. 

The  clerks  were  there,  but  nobody  was  doing  anything. 
Old  Tiifey,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  I  should  think,  was  sit- 
ting on  somebody  else's  stool,  and  had  not  hung  up  his  hat. 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  calamity,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  he, 
as  I  entered. 

"  What  is  ?"  I  exclaimed.     "  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  ?"  cried  Tiffey,  and  all  the  rest  of  them, 
coming  round  me. 

"  No  !"  said  I,  looking  from  face  to  face. 

"  Mr.  Spenlow,"  said  Tiffey. 

"What  about  him!" 

"  Dead  !" 

I  thought  it  was  the  office  reeling,  and  not  I,  as  one  of 
the  clerks  caught  hold  of  me.  They  sat  me  down  in  a  chair, 
untied  my  neckcloth,  and  brought  me  some  water.  I  have 
no  idea  whether  this  took  any  time. 

"  Dead  ?"  said  I. 

"  He  dined  in  town  yesterday,  and  drove  down  in  the 
phaeton  by  himself,"  said  Tiffey,  ''having  sent  his  own 
groom  home  by  the  coach,  as  he  sometimes  did,  you 
know — " 

"Well?" 

"The  phaeton  went  home  without  him.  The  horses 
stopped  at  the  stable  gate.  The  man  went  out  with  a 
lantern.     Nobody  in  the  carriage." 

"  Had  they  run  away  ?" 

"  They  were  not  hot,"  said  Tiffey,  putting  on  his  glass- 
es; "  no  hotter,  I  understand,  than  they  v/ould  have  been 
going  down  at  the  usual  pace.  The  reins  were  broken,  but 
they  had  been  dragging  on  the  ground.  The  house  was 
roused  up  directly,  and  three  of  them  went  out  along  the 
road.     They  found  him  a  mile  off." 

"  More  than  a  mile  off,  Mr.  Tiffey,"  interposed  a  junior. 

"  Was  it?  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Ti^ey ,—'" more 
than  a  mile  off— not  far  from  the  church — lying  partly  on 
the  road-side,  and  partly  on  the  path,  upon  his  face. 
Whether  he  fell  out  in  a  fit,  or  got  out,  feeling  ill  before  the 
fit  came  on — or  even  whether  he  was  quite  dead  then, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  he  was.  quite  insensible— no  one 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  551 

appears  to  know.  If  he  breathed,  certainly  he  never  spoke. 
Medical  assistance .  was  got  as  soon  as  possible,  but  it  was 
quite  useless." 

I  cannot  describe  the  state  of  mind  into  which  I  was 
thrown  by  this  intelligence.  The  shock  of  such  an  event 
happening  so  suddenly,  and  happening  to  one  with  whom  I 
had  been  in  any  respect  at  variance — the  appalling  vacancy 
in  the  room  he  had  occupied  so  lately,  where  his  chair  and 
table  seemed  to  wait  for  him,  and  his  handwriting  of  yes- 
terday was  like  a  ghost — the  indefinable  impossibility  of  sep- 
arating him  from  the  place,  and  feeling  when  the  door 
opened,  as  if  he  might  come  in — the  lazy  hush  and  rest 
there  was  in  the  office,  and  the  insatiable  relish  with  which 
our  people  talked  about  it,  and  other  people  came  in  and 
out  all  day,  and  gorged  themselves  with  the  subject — this  is 
easily  intelligible  to  any  one.  What  I  cannot  describe  is, 
how,  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  my  own  heart,  I  had  a 
lurking  jealousy  even  of  Death.  How  I  felt  as  if  its  might 
would  push  me  from  my  ground  in  Dora's  thoughts.  How 
I  was,  in  a  grudging  way  I  have  no  words  for,  envious  of  her 
grief.  How  it  made  me  restless  to  think  of  her  weeping  to 
others,  or  being  consoled  by  others.  How  I  had  a  grasping, 
avaricious  wish  to  shut  out  everybody  from  her  but  myself, 
and  to  be  all  in  all  to  her,  at  that  unseasonable  time  of  all 
times. 

In  the  trouble  of  this  state  of  mind — not  exclusively  my 
own,  I  hope,  but  known  to  others — I  went  down  to  Nor- 
wood that  night;  and  finding  from  one  of  the  servants,  when 
I  made  my  inquiries  at  the  door,  that  Miss  Mills  was  there, 
got  my  aunt  to  direct  a  letter  to  her,  which  I  wrote.  I  de- 
plored the  untimely  death  of  Mr.  Spenlow  most  sincerely, 
and  shed  tears  in  doing  so.  I  entreated  her  to  tell  Dora,  if 
Dora  were  in  a  state  to  hear  it,  that  he  had  spoken  to  me 
with  the  utmost  kindness  and  consideration;  and  had 
coupled  nothing  but  tenderness,  not  a  single  or  reproachful 
word,  with  her  name.  I  know  I  did  this  selfishly,  to  have 
my  name  brought  before  her;  but  I  tried  to  believe  it  was 
an  act  of  justice  to  his  memory.  Perhaps  I  did  be- 
lieve it. 

My  aunt  received  a  few  lines  next  day  in  reply;  ad- 
dressed, outside,  to  her;  within,  to  me.  Dora  was  over- 
come by  grief;  and  when  her  friend  had  asked  her  should 
she  send  her  love    to   me,  had   only  cried,  as  she  was  al- 


552  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ways  crying,  "  Oh,  dear  papa!  oh,  poor  papa!"  But  she 
had  not  said  No,  and  that  I  made  the  most  of. 

Mr.  Jorkins,  who  had  been  at  Norwood  since  the  occur- 
rence, came  to  the  office  a  few  days  afterwards.  He  and 
Tiffey  were  closeted  together  for  some  few  moments,  and 
then  Tiffey  looked  out  at  the  door  and  beckoned  me  in. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Jorkins.  "Mr.  Tiffey  and  myself,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  are  about  to  examine  the  desk,  the  drawers, 
and  other  such  repositories  of  the  deceased,  with  the 
view  of  sealing  up  his  private  papers,  and  searching  for 
a  Will.  There  is  no  trace  of  any,  elsewhere.  It  may  be 
as  well  for  you  to  assist  us,  if  you  please." 

I  had  been  in  agony  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  my  Dora  would  be  placed — as,  in 
whose  guardianship,  and  so  forth — and  this  was  something 
towards  it.  We  began  the  search  at  once;  Mr.  Jorkins 
unlocking  the  drawers  and  desks,  and  we  all  taking  out 
the  papers.  The  office  papers  we  placed  on  one  side,  and 
the  private  papers  (which  were  not  numerous)  on  the  other. 
We  were  very  grave;  and  when  we  came  to  a  stray  seal,  or 
pencil-case,  or  ring,  or  any  little  article  of  that  kind  which 
we  associated  personally  with  him,  we  spoke  very  low. 

We  had  sealed  up  several  packets;  and  were  still  going  on 
dustily  and  quietly,  when  Mr.  Jorkins  said  to  us,  applying 
exactly  the  same  words  to  his  late  partner  as  his  late  partner 
had  applied  to  him: 

"  Mr.  Spenlow  was  very  difficult  to  move  from  the  beaten 
track.  You  know  what  he  was  !  I  am  disposed  to  think  he 
had  made  no  will." 

"  Oh,  I  know  he  had  !"  said  I. 

They  both  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"  On  the  very  day  when  I  last  saw  him,"  said  I,  "he  told 
me  that  he  had,  and  that  his  affairs  were  long  since  settled." 

Mr.  Jorkins  and  old  Tiffey  shook  their  heads  with  one 
accord. 

"  That  looks  unpromising,"  said  Tiffey. 

"  Very  unpromising,"  said  Mr.  Jorkins. 

"  Surely  you  don't  doubt — "  I  began. 

"  My  good  Mr.  Copperfield  !"  said  Tiffey,  laying  his  hand 
upon  my  arm,  and  shutting  up  both  his  eyes  as  he  shook  his 
head:  "  if  you  had  been  in  the  Commons  as  long  as  I  have, 
you  would  know  that  there  is  no  subject  on  which  men  are 
so  inconsistent,  and  so  little  to  be  trusted." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  553 

"  Why  bless  my  soul,  he  made  that  remark  !"  I  replied 
persistently. 

"  I  should  call  that  almost  final,"  observed  Tiffey.  "  My 
opinion  is — no  will." 

It  appeared  a  wonderful  thing  to  me,  but  it  turned  out  that 
there  was  no  will.  He  had  never  so  much  as  thought  of  mak- 
ing one,  so  far  as  his  papers  afforded  any  evidence;  for 
there  was  no  kind  of  hint,  sketch,  or  memorandum,  of  any 
testamentary  intention  whatever.  What  was  scarcely  less 
astonishing  to  me,  was,  that  his  affairs  were  in  a  most  dis- 
ordered state.  It  was  extremely  difficult,  I  heard,  to  make 
out  what  he  owed,  or  what  he  had  paid,  or  of  what  he  died 
possessed.  It  was  considered  likely  that  for  years  he  could 
have  had  no  clear  opinion  on  these  subjects  himself.  By 
little  and  little  it  came  out,  that,  in  the  competition  on  all 
points  of  appearance  and  gentility  then  running  high  in  the 
Commons,  he  had  spent  more  than  his  professional  income, 
which  was  not  a  very  large  one,  and  had  reduced  his  private 
means,  if  they  ever  had  been  great  (which  was  exceedingly 
doubtful),  to  a  very  low  ebb  indeed.  There  was  a  sale  of 
the  furniture  and  lease  at  Norwood;  and  Tiffey  told  me, 
little  thinking  how  interested  I  was  in  the  story,  that,  paying 
all  the  just  debts  of  the  deceased,  and  deducting  his  share 
of  outstanding  bad  and  doubtful  debts  due  to  the  firm,  he 
wouldn't  give  a  thousand  pounds  for  all  the  assets  remaining. 

This  was  at  the  expiration  of  about  six  weeks.  I  had  suf- 
fered tortures  all  the  time;  and  thought  I  really  must  have 
laid  violent  hands  upon  myself,  when  Miss  Mills  still  re- 
ported to  me,  that  my  broken-hearted  little  Dora  would  say 
nothing,  when  I  was  mentioned,  but  "  Oh,  poor  papa  !  Oh, 
dear  papa  !"  Also,  that  she  had  no  other  relations  than 
two  aunts,  maiden  sisters  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  who  lived  at  Put- 
ney, and  who  had  not  held  any  other  than  chance  communi- 
cation with  their  brother  for  many  years.  Not  that  they 
had  ever  quarreled  (Miss  Mills  informed  me);  but  that 
having  been,  on  the  occasion  of  Dora's  christening,  invited 
to  tea,  when  they  considered  themselves  privileged  to  be 
invited  to  dinner,  they  had  expressed  their  opinion  in  writ- 
ing, that  it  was  *'  better  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties"  that 
they  should  stay  away.  Since  which  they  had  gone  their 
road,  and  their  brother  had  gone  his. 

These  two  ladies  now  emerged  from  their  retirement,  and 
proposed  to  take  Dora  to  live  at  Putney.     Dora,  clinging  to 


554  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

them  both,  and  weeping,  exclaimed,  "  O  yes,  aunts  !  Please 
take  Julia  Mills  and  me  and  Jip  to  Putney  !"  So  they  went, 
very  soon  after  the  funeral. 

How  I  found  time  to  haunt  Putney,  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know;  but  I  contrived,  by  some  means  or  other,  to  prowl 
about  the  neighborhood  pretty  often.  Miss  Mills,  for  the 
more  exact  discharge  of  the  duties  of  friendship,  kept  a 
journal;  and  she  used  to  meet  me  sometimes,  on  the  Com- 
mon, and  read  it,  or  (if  she  had  no  time  to  do  that)  lend  it 
to  me.  How  I  treasured  up  the  entries,  of  which  I  subjoin 
a  sample  ! 

"  Monday.  My  sweet  D.  still  much  depressed.  Head- 
ache. Called  attention  to  J.  as  being  beautifully  sleek.  D. 
fondled  J.  Associations  thus  awakened,  opened  floodgates 
of  sorrow.  Rush  of  grief  admitted.  (Are  tears  the  dew- 
drops  of  the  heart  ?     J.  M.) 

"  Tuesday.  D.  weak  and  nervous.  Beautiful  in  pallor. 
(Do  we  not  remark  this  in  moon  likewise?  J.  M.)  D.,  J.  M. 
and  J.  took  airing  in  carriage.  J.  looking  out  of  window, 
and  barking  violently  at  dustmen,  occasioned  smile  to  over- 
spread features  of  D.  (Of  such  slight  links  is  chain  of  life 
composed!     J.  M.) 

**  Wednesday.  D.  comparatively  cheerful.  Sang  to  her, 
as  congenial  melody.  Evening  Bells.  Effect  not  soothing, 
but  reverse.  D.  inexpressibly  affected.  Found  sobbing  after- 
wards, in  own  room.  Quoted  verses  respecting  self  and 
young  Gazelle.  Ineffectually.  Also  referred  to  Patience 
on  Monument.     (Qy.     Why  on  Monument?  J.  M.) 

"  Thursday.  D.  certainly  improved.  Better  night.  Slight 
tinge  of  damask  revisiting  heek.  Resolved  to  mention 
name  of  D.  C.  Introduced  same,  cautiously,  in  course  of 
airing.  D.  immediately  overcome.  'Oh,  dear,  dear  Julia! 
Oh,  I  have  been  a  naughty  and  undutiful  child!'  Soothed 
and  caressed.  Drew  ideal  picture  of  D.  C.  on  verge  of 
tomb.  D.  again  overcome.  '  Oh  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do?  Oh,  take  me  somewhere?'  Much  alarmed. 
Fainting  of  D.  and  glass  of  water  from  pubHc-house,  (Poeti- 
cal Affinity.  Checkered  sign  on  door-post;  checkered  hu- 
man life.     Alas!  J.  M.) 

*'  Friday.  Day  of  incident.  Man  appears  in  kitchen, 
with  blue  bag,  '  for  lady's  boots  left  out  to  heel.'  Cook  re- 
plies, '  No  such  orders.'  Man  argues  point.  Cook  with- 
draws to  inquire,  leaving  man  alone  with  J.     On  Cook's  re- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ^^^ 

turn,  man  still  argues  point,  but  ultimately  goes.  J.  miss- 
ing. D.  distracted.  Information  sent  to  police.  Man  to 
be  identified  by  broad  nose,  and  legs  like  balustrades  of 
bridge.  Search  made  in  every  direction.  No  J.  D.  weep- 
ing bitterly,  and  inconsolable.  Renewed  reference  to  young 
Gazelle.  Appropriate,  but  unavailing.  Towards  evening, 
strange  boy  calls.  Brought  into  parlor.  Broad  nose,  but 
no  balustrades.  Says  he  wants  a  pound,  and  knows  a  dog. 
Declines  to  explain  further,  though  much  pressed.  Pound 
being  produced  by  D.  takes  Cook  to  little  house,  where  J. 
alone  tied  up  to  leg  of  table.  Joy  of  D.  who  dances  round 
J.  while  he  eats  his  supper.  Emboldened  by  this  happy 
change,  mention  D.  C.  up-stairs.  D.  weeps  afresh,  cries 
piteously.  *  Oh,  don't  don't  don't.  It  is  so  wicked  to  think 
of  anything  but  poor  papa!' — embraces  J.  and  sobs  herself 
to  sleep.  (Must  not  D.  C  confide  himself  to  the  broad 
pinions  of  Time?     J.  M.)" 

Miss  Mills  and  her  journal  were  my  sole  consolation  at 
this  period.  To  see  her,  who  had  seen  Dora  but  a  little 
while  before — to  trace  the  initial  letter  of  Dora's  name 
through  her  sympathetic  pages — to  be  made  more  and  more 
miserable  by  her — were  my  only  comforts.  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  living  in  a  palace  of  cards,  which  had  tumbled 
down,  leaving  only  Miss  Mills  and  me  among  the  ruins;  as 
if  some  grim  enchanter  had  drawn  a  magic  circle  round  the 
innocent  goddess  of  my  heart,  which  nothing  indeed  but 
those  same  strong  pinions,  capable  of  carrying  so  many 
people  over  so  much,  would  enable  me  to  enter! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

WICKFIELD    AND    KEEP. 

My  aunt,  beginning,  I  imagine,  to  be  made  seriously  un- 
comfortable by  my  prolonged  dejection,  made  a  pretense  of 
being  anxious  that  I  should  go  to  Dover,  to  see  that  all  was 
working  well  at  the  cottage,  which  was  let;  and  to  conclude 
an  agreement,  with  the  same  tenant,  for  a  longer  term  of  oc- 
cupation. Janet  was  drafted  into  the  service  of  Mrs.  Strong, 
where  I  saw  her  every  day.  She  had  been  undecided,  on 
leaving  Dover,  whether  or  no  to  give  the  finishing  touch  to 
that  renunciation  of  mankind  in  which  she  had  been  edu^ 


5S6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

cated,  by  marrying  a  pilot;  but  she  decided  against  that  ven- 
ture. Not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  principle,  I  believe,  as 
because  she  happened  not  to  like  him. 

Although  it  required  an  effort  to  leave  Miss  Mills,  I  fell 
rather  willingly  into  my  aunt's  pretense,  as  a  means  of  en- 
abling me  to  pass  a  few  tranquil  hours  with  Agnes.  I  con- 
sulted the  good  Doctor  relative  to  an  absence  of  three  days; 
and  the  Doctor  wishing  me  to  take  that  relaxation, — he 
wished  me  to  take  more;  but  my  energy  could  not  bear  that, 
— I  made  up  my  mind  to  go. 

As  to  the  Commons,  I  had  no  great  occasion  to  be  partic- 
ular about  my  duties  in  that  quarter.  To  say  the  truth,  we 
were  getting  in  no  very  good  odor  among  the  tip-top  proctors, 
and  were  rapidly  sliding  down  to  but  a  doubtful  position. 
The  business  had  been  indifferent  under  Mr.  Jorkins,  before 
Mr.  Spenlow's  time;  and  although  it  had  been  quickened  by 
the  infusion  of  new  blood,  and  by  the  display  which  Mr. 
Spenlow  made,  still  it  was  not  established  on  a  sufficiently 
strong  basis  to  bear,  without  being  shaken,  such  a  blow  as 
the  sudden  loss  of  its  active  manager.  It  fell  off  very  much. 
Mr.  Jorkins,  notwithstanding  his  reputation  in  the  firm,  was 
an  easy-going,  incapable  sort  of  man,  whose  reputation  out- 
of-doors  was  not  calculated  to  back  it  up.  I  was  turned 
over  to  him  now,  and  when  I  saw  him  take  his  snuff  and  let 
the  business  go,  I  regretted  my  aunt's  thousand  pounds  more 
than  ever. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  There  were  a  number 
of  hangers-on  and  outsiders  about  the  Commons,  who,  with- 
out being  proctors  themselves,  dabbled  in  common-form 
business,  and  got  it  done  by  real  proctors,  who  lent  their 
names  in  consideration  of  a  share  in  the  spoil; — and  there 
were  a  good  many  of  these  too.  As  our  house  now  wanted 
business  on  any  terms,  we  joined  this  noble  band;  and  threw 
out  lures  to  the  hangers-on  and  outsiders,  to  bring  their 
business  to  us.  Marriage  licenses,  and  small  probates  were 
what  we  looked  for,  and  what  paid  us  best;  and  the  compe- 
tition for  these,  ran  very  high  indeed.  Kidnappers  and  in- 
veiglers  were  planted  in  all  the  avenues  of  entrance  to  the 
Commons,  with  instructions  to  do  their  utmost  to  cut  off 
all  persons  in  mourning,  and  all  gentlemen  with  anything 
bashful  in  their  appearance,  and  entice  them  to  the  offices 
in  which  their  respective  employers  were  interested;  which 
instructions  were  so  well  observed,  that  I   myself,  before  I 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  5S7 

was  known  by  sight,  was  twice  hustled  into  the  premises  of 
our  principal  opponent.  The  conflicting  interests  of  these 
touting  gentlemen  being  of  a  nature  to  irritate  their  feelings, 
personal  collisions  took  place;  and  the  Commons  was  even 
scandalized  by  our  principal  inveigler  (who  had  formerly  been 
in  the  wine  trade,  and  afterwards  in  the  sworn  brokery  line) 
walking  about  for  some  days  with  a  black  eye.  Any  one  of  these 
scouts  used  to  think  nothing  of  politely  assisting  an  old  lady 
in  black  out  of  a  vehicle,  killing  any  proctor  she  inquired 
for,  representing  his  employer  as  the  lawful  successor  and 
representative  of  that  proctor,  and  bearing  the  old  lady  off 
(sometimes  greatly  affected)  to  his  employer's  office.  Many 
captives  were  brought  to  me  in  this  way.  As  to  marriage 
licenses,  the  competition  rose  to  such  a  pitch,  that  a  shy 
gentleman  in  want  of  one,  had  nothing  to  do  but  submit  him- 
self to  the  first  inveigler,  or  be  fought  for,  and  become  the 
prey  of  the  strongest.  One  of  our  clerks,  who  was  an  out- 
sider, used,  in  the  height  of  this  contest,  to  sit  with  his  hat 
on,  that  he  might  be  ready  to  rush  out  and  swear  before  a 
surrogate  any  victim  who  was  brought  in.  The  system  of 
inveigling  continues,  I  believe,  to  this  day.  The  last  time  I 
was  in  the  Commons,  a  civil,  able-bodied  person  in  a  white 
apron  pounced  out  upon  me  from  a  doorway,  and  whisper- 
ing the  word  "  marriage-license  "  in  my  ear,  was  with  great 
difficulty  prevented  from  taking  me  up  in  his  arms  and  lift- 
ing me  into  a  proctor's. 

From  this  digression,  let  me  proceed  to  Dover. 

I  found  everything  in  a  satisfactory  state  at  the  cottage; 
and  was  enabled  to  gratify  my  aunt  exceedingly  by  report- 
ing that  the  tenant  inherited  her  feud,  and  waged  incessant 
war  against  donkeys.  Having  settled  the  little  business  I 
had  to  transact  there,  and  slept  there  one  night,  I  walked  on 
to  Canterbury  early  in  the  morning.  It  was  now  winter 
again;  and  the  fresh,  cold,  windy  day,  and  the  sweeping 
down-land,  brightened  up  my  hopes  a  little. 

Coming  into  Canterbury,  I  loitered  through  the  old  streets 
with  a  sober  pleasure  that  calmed  my  spirits,  and  eased  my 
heart.  There  were  the  old  signs,  the  old  names  over  the 
shops,  the  old  people  serving  in  them.  It  appeared  so  long, 
since  I  had  been  a  schoolboy  there,  that  I  wondered  the 
place  was  so  little  changed,  until  I  reflected  how  little  I  was 
changed  myself.  Strange  to  say,  that  quiet  influence  which 
was  inseparable  in  my  mind  from  Agnes  seemed  to  pervade 


55«  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

even  the  city  where  she  dwelt.  The  venerable  cathedral 
towers,  and  the  old  jackdaws  and  rooks  whose  airy  voices 
made  them  more  retired  than  perfect  silence  would  have 
done;  the  battered  gateways  once  stuck  full  with  statues, 
long  thrown  down,  and  crumbled  away,  like  the  reverential 
pilgrims  who  had  gazed  upon  them;  the  still  nooks,  where 
the  ivied  growth  of  centuries  crept  over  gabled  ends  and 
ruined  walls;  the  ancient  houses,  the  pastoral  landscape  of 
field,  orchard,  and  garden;  everywhere — on  everythmg — I 
felt  the  same  serener  air,  the  same  calm,  thoughtful,  soften- 
ing spirit. 

Arrived  at  Mr.  Wickfield's  house,  I  found,  in  the  little 
lower-room  on  the  ground  floor,  where  Uriah  Heep  had  been 
of  old  accustomed  to  sit,  Mr.  Micawber  plying  his  pen  with 
great  assiduity.  He  was  dressed  in  a  legal-looking  suit  of 
black,  and  loomed,  burly  and  large  in  that  small  office. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  extremely  glad  to  see  me,  but  a  little 
confused  too.  He  would  have  conducted  me  immediately 
into  the  presence  of  Uriah,  but  I  declined. 

"I  know  the  house  of  old,  you  recollect,"  said  I,  "and 
will  find  my  way  up-stairs.  How  do  you  like  the  law,  Mr. 
Micawber  ?" 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  he  replied.  "  To  a  man  possessed 
of  the  higher  imaginative  powers,  the  objection  to  legal 
studies  is  the  amount  of  detail  which  they  involve.  Even 
in  our  professional  correspondence,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
glancing  at  some  letters  he  was  writing,  "  the  mind  is  not  at 
liberty  to  soar  to  any  exalted  form  of  expression.  Still,  it 
is  a  great  pursuit.     A  great  pursuit!" 

He  then  told  me  that  he  had  become  the  tenant  of  Uriah 
Heep's  old  house;  and  that  Mrs.  Micawber  would  be  de- 
lighted to  receive  me,  once  more,  under  her  own  roof. 

"It  is  humble,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  " — to  quote  a  favor- 
ite expression  of  my  friend  Heep;  but  it  may  prove  the 
stepping-stone  to  more  ambitious  domiciliary  accommoda- 
tion." 

I  asked  him  whether  he  had  reason  so  far  to  be  satisfied 
with  his  friend  Heep's  treatment  of  him  ?  He  got  up  to  as- 
certain if  the  door  were  close  shut,  before  he  replied,  in  a 
lower  voice: 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,  a  man  who  labors  under  the 
pressure  of  pecuniary  embarrassments,  is,  with  the  gener- 
ality of   people,  at  a  disadvantage.     That  disadvantage  is 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  559 

not  diminished,  when  that  pressure  necessitates  the  drawing 
of  stipendiary  emoluments,  before  those  emoluments  are 
strictly  due  and  payable.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  my  friend 
Heep  has  responded  to  appeals  to  which  I  need  not  more 
particularly  refer,  in  a  manner  calculated  to  redound  equally 
to  the  honor  of  his  head  and  of  his  heart." 

"  I  should  not  have  supposed  him  to  be  very  free  with 
his  money  either,"  I  obse^ed. 

"Pardon  me!"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  an  air  of  con- 
straint, *'  I  speak  of  my  friend  Heep  as  I  have  experience." 

"  I  am  glad  your  experience  is  so  favorable,"  I  returned. 

"  You  are  very  obliging,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber;  and  hummed  a  tune. 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  Mr.  Wickfield  ?"  I  asked,  to  change 
the  subject. 

"  Not  much,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  slightingly.  "  Mr. 
Wickfield  is,  I  dare  say,  a  man  of  very  excellent  intentions; 
but  he  is — in  short  he  is  obsolete." 

"  I  am  afraid  his  partner  seeks  to  make  him  so,"  said  I. 

"My  dear  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  after 
some  uneasy  evolutions  on  his  stool,  "  allow  me  to  offer  a 
remark!  I  am  here  in  a  capacity  of  confidence.  I  am  here 
in  a  position  of  trust.  The  discussion  of  some  topics,  even 
with  Mrs.  Micawber  herself  (so  long  the  partner  of  my  va- 
rious vicissitudes,  and  a  woman  of  a  remarkable  lucidity  of 
intellect),  is,  I  am  led  to  consider,  incompatible  with  the 
functions  now  devolving  on  me.  I  would  therefore  take  the 
liberty  of  suggesting  that  in  our  friendly  intercourse — which 
I  trust  will  never  be  disturbed! — we  draw  a  line.  On  one 
side  of  this  line,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  representing  it  on  the 
desk  with  the  office  ruler,  '*  is  the  whole  range  of  the  hu- 
man intellect,  with  a  trifling  exception;  on  the  other,  is  that 
exception;  that  is  to  say,  the  affairs  of  Messrs.  Wickfield 
and  Heep,  with  all  belonging  and  appertaining  thereunto 
I  trust  I  give  no  offence  to  the  companion  of  my  youth^ 
in  submitting  this  proposition  to  his  cooler  judgment  ?" 

Though  I  saw  an  uneasy  change  in  Mr.  Micawber,  which 
sat  tightly  on  him,  as  if  his  new  duties  were  a  misfit,  I  felt 
I  had  no  right  to  be  offended.  My  telling  him  so,  appeared 
to  relieve  him;  and  he  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  I  am  charmed,  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  let 
me  assure  you,  with  Miss  Wickfield.  She  is  a  very  superior 
young  lady,   of  very  remarkable  attractions,  graces,  and 


S6o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

virtues.  Upon  my  honor,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  indefinitely 
kissing  his  hand  and  bowing  with  his  genteclest  air,  "  I  do 
homage  to  Miss  Wickfield!     Hem!" 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  at  least,"  said  I. 

"  If  you  had  not  assured  us,  my  dear  Copperfield,  on  the 
occasion  of  that  agreeable  afternoon  we  had  the  happiness 
of  passing  with  you,  that  D.  was  your  favorite  letter,"  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  ''  I  should  unquestionably  have  supposed 
that  A.  had  been  so." 

We  have  all  some  experience  of  a  feeling,  that  comes  over 
us  occasionally,  of  what  we  are  saying  and  doing  having 
been  said  and  done  before,  in  a  remote  time — of  our  having 
been  surrounded,  dim  ages  ago,  by  the  same  faces,  objects, 
and  circumstances — of  our  knowing  perfectly  what  will  be 
said  next,  as  if  we  suddenly  remembered  it,  I  never  had  this 
mysterious  impression  more  strongly  in  my  life,  than  before 
he  uttered  those  words. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Mr.  Micawber,  for  the  time,  charging 
him  with  my  best  remembrances  to  all  at  home.  As  I  left 
him,  resuming  his  stool  and  his  pen,  and  rolling  his  head  in 
his  stock,  to  get  it  into  easier  writing  order,  I  clearly  perceived 
that  there  was  something  interposed  between  him  and  me, 
since  he  had  come  into  his  new  functions,  which  prevented 
our  getting  at  each  other  as  we  used  to  do,  and  quite  altered 
the  character  of  our  intercourse. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  quaint  old  drawing-room,  though 
it  presented  tokens  of  Mrs.  Heep's  whereabout.  I  looked 
into  the  room  still  belonging  to  Agnes,  and  saw  her  sitting 
by  the  fire,  at  a^pretty  old-fashioned  desk  she  had,  writing. 

My  darkening  the  light  made  her  look  up.  What  a 
pleasure  to  be  the  cause  of  that  bright  change  in  her  atten- 
tive face,  and  the  object  of  that  sweet  regard  and  welcome  ! 

"  Ah,  Agnes  !  "  said  I,  when  we  were  sitting  together,  side 
by  side  ;      I  have  missed  you  so  much,  lately  !  " 

"  Indeed  ? "  she  replied.     '*  Again  !     And  so  soon  ? " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Agnes  ;  I  seem  to  want  some 
faculty  of  mind  that  I  ought  to  have.  You  were  so  much  in 
the  habit  of  thinking  for  me,  in  the  happy  old  days  here, 
and  I  came  so  naturally  to  you  for  counsel  and  support, 
that  I  really  think  I  have  missed  acquiring  it." 

"  And  what  is  it  ?  "  said  Agnes,  cheerfully. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it,"  I  replied.  "  I  think  I  am 
earnest  and  persevering  ?  " 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  561 

**  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Agnes. 

"  And  patient,  Agnes  ? "  I  enquired,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Agnes,  laughing.     "  Pretty  well." 

"  And  yet,"  said  I,  "  I  get  so  miserable  and  worried,  and 
am  so  unsteady  and  irresolute  in  my  power  of  assuring  my- 
self, that  I  know  I  must  want — shall  I  call  it — reliance,  of 
some  kind  ?  " 

"Call  it  so,  if  you  will,"  said  Agnes. 

"  Well !  "  I  returned.  "  See  here  !  You  come  to  London, 
I  rely  on  you,  and  I  have  an  object  and  a  course  at  once.  I 
am  driven  out  of  it,  I  come  here,  and  in  a  moment  I  feel  an 
altered  person.  The  circumstances  that  distressed  me  are 
not  changed,  since  I  came  into  this  room  ;  but  an  influence 
comes  over  me  at  that  short  interval  that  alters  me,  oh,  how 
much  for  the  better !  What  is  it  ?  What  is  your  secret,  Agnes  ? " 

Her  head  was  bent  down,  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  It's  the  old  story,"  said  I.  "  Don't  laugh,  when  I  say  it 
was  always  the  same  in  little  things  as  it  is  in  greater  ones. 
My  old  troubles  were  nonsense,  and  now  they  are  serious  ; 
but  whenever  I  have  gone  away  from  my  adopted  sister — " 

Agnes  looked  up — with  such  a  Heavenly  face  ! — and  gave 
me  her  hand,  which  I  kissed. 

"  Whenever  I  have  not  had  you,  Agnes,  to  advise  and  ap- 
prove in  the  beginning,  I  have  seemed  to  go  wild,  and  to  get 
into  all  sorts  of  difficulty.  When  I  have  come  to  you,  at 
last  (as  I  have  always  done),  I  have  come  to  peace  and  hap- 
piness. I  come  home,  now,  like  a  tired  traveler,  and  find 
such  a  blessed  sense  of  rest !  " 

I  felt  so  deeply  what  I  said,  it  affected  me  so  sincerely, 
that  my  voice  failed,  and  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hand, 
and  broke  into  tears.  I  write  the  truth.  Whatever  con- 
tradictions and  inconsistencies  there  were  within  me,  as 
there  is  within  so  many  of  us;  whatever  might  have 
been  so  different,  and  so  much  better;  whatever  I  had  done, 
in  which  I  had  perversely  wandered  away  from  the  voice  of 
my  own  heart;  I  knew  nothing  of.  I  only  knew  that  I  was 
fervently  in  earnest,  when  I  felt  the  rest  and  peace  of  hav- 
ing Agnes  near  me. 

In  her  placid,  sisterly  manner;  with  her  beaming  eyes; 
with  her  tender  voice;  and  with  that  sweet  composure, 
which  had  long  ago  made  the  house  that  held  her  quite  a 
sacred  place  tome;  she  soon,  won  me  from  this  weakness, 
and  led  me  on  to  tell  all  that  had  happened  sir;g^  our  last 
meeting. 


S62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  And  there  is  not  another  word  to  tell,  Agnes,"  said  I, 
when  I  had  made  an  end  of  my  confidence.  "  Now,  my 
reliance  is  on  you." 

"  But  it  must  not  be  on  me,  Trotwood,"  returned  Agnes, 
with  a  pleasant  smile.     "  It  must  be  on  some  one  else." 

"  On  Dora  ?"  said  I. 

"Assuredly." 

"  Why,  I  have  not  mentioned,  Agnes,"  said  I,  a  little  em- 
barrassed, "  that  Dora  is  rather  difficult  to — I  would  not, 
for  the  world,  say,  to  rely  upon,  because  she  is  the  soul  of 
purity  and  truth — but  rather  difficult  to — I  hardly  know 
how  to  express  it,  really,  Agnes.  She  is  a  timid  little  thing, 
and  easily  disturbed  and  frightened.  Some  time  ago  before 
her  father's  death,  when  I  thought  it  right  to  mention  to  her 
— but  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  will  bear  with  me,  how  it  was." 

Accordingly,  I  told  Agnes  about  my  declaration  of  pov- 
erty, about  the  cookery-book,  the  housekeeping  accounts, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

*'  Oh,  Trotwood  !"  she  remonstrated,  with  a  smile.  "  Just 
your  old  headlong  way  !  You  might  have  been  in  earnest 
in  striving  to  get  on  in  the  world,  without  being  so  very 
sudden  with  a  timid,  loving,  inexperienced  girl.    Poor  Dora!" 

I  never  heard  such  sweet  forbearing  kindness  expressed 
in  a  voice,  as  she  expressed  in  making  this  reply.  It  was  as 
if  I  had  seen  her  admiringly  and  tenderly  embracing  Dora, 
and  tacitly  reproving  me,  by  her  considerate  protection,  for 
my  hot  haste  in  fluttering  that  little  heart.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  seen  Dora,  in  all  her  fascinating  artlessness,  caressing 
Agnes,  and  thanking  her,  and  coaxingly  appealing  against 
me,  and  loving  me  with  all  her  childish  innocence. 

I  felt  so  grateful  to  Agnes,  and  admired  her  so  !  I  saw 
those  two  together,  in  a  bright  perspective,  such  well-associ- 
ated friends,  each  adoring  the  other  so  much  ! 

"  What  ought  I  to  do  then,  Agnes  ?"  I  inquired,  after 
looking  at  the  fire  a  little  while.  "  What  would  it  be  right 
to  do  !" 

"  I  think,"  said  Agnes,  "  that  the  honorable  course  to  take, 
would  be  to  write  to  those  two  ladies.  Don't  you  think  that 
any  secret  course  is  an  unworthy  one  ?" 

"  Yes.     If  you  think  so,"  said  I. 

"  I  am  poorly  qualified  to  judge  of  such  matters,"  replied 
Agnes,  with  a  modest  hesitation,  "  but  I  certainly  feel — in 
short,  I  feel  that  your  being  secret  and  clandestine,  is  not 
being  like  yourself," 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  563 

•*  Like  myself,  in  the  too  high  opinion  you  have  of  me, 
Agnes,  I  am  afraid,"  said  I. 

"  Like  vourself  in  the  candor  of  your  nature,"  she  re- 
turned; '  and  therefore  I  would  write  to  those  two  ladies. 
I  would  relate,  as  plainly  and  as  openly  as  possible,  all  that 
has  taken  place;  and  I  would  ask  their  permission  to  visit 
sometimes,  at  their  house.  Considering  that  you  are 
young,  and  striving  for  a  place  in  life,  I  think  it  would  be 
well  to  say  that  you  would  readily  abide  by  any  conditions 
they  might  impose  upon  you.  I  would  entreat  them  not  to 
dismiss  your  request,  without  a  reference  to  Dora;  and 
to  discuss  it  with  her  when  they  should  think  the  time 
suitable.  I  would  not  be  too  vehement,"  said  Agnes,  gent- 
ly, "  or  propose  too  much.  I  would  trust  to  my  fidelity 
and  perseverance — and  to  Dora." 

"  But  if  they  were  to  frighten  Dora  again,  Agnes,  by  speak- 
ing to  her,"  said  I.  "  And  if  Dora  were  to  cry  and  say  noth- 
ing about  me!" 

"  Is  that  likely  ?"  inquired  Agnes,  with  the  same  sweet 
consideration  in  her  face. 

"God  bless  her,  she  is  as  easily  scared  as  a  bird,"  said  I. 
"  It  might  be!  Or  if  the  two  Miss  Spenlows  (elderly  ladies 
of  that  sort  are  odd  characters  sometimes)  should  not  be 
likely  persons  to  address  in  that  way  !" 

"  I  don't  think,  Trotwood,"  returned  Agnes,  raising  her 
soft  eyes  to  mine,  "  I  would  consider  that.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  only  to  consider  whether  it  is  right  to  do  this;  and, 
if  it  is,  to  do  it." 

I  had  no  longer  any  doubt  on  the  subject.  With  a  light- 
ened heart,  though  with  a  profound  sense  of  the  weighty  im- 
portance of  my  task,  I  devoted  the  whole  afternoon  to  the 
composition  of  the  draft  of  this  letter;  for  which  great  pur- 
pose, Agnes  relinquished  her  desk  to  me.  But  first  I  went 
down  stairs  to  see  Mr.  Wickfield  and  Uriah  Heep. 

I  found  Uriah  in  possession  of  a  new,  plaster-smelling 
office,  built  out  in  the  garden;  looking  extraordinarily  mean, 
in  the  midst  of  a  quantity  of  books  and  papers.  He  re- 
ceived me  in  his  usual  fawning  way;  and  pretended  not  to 
have  heard  of  my  arrival  from  Mr.  Micawber;  a  pretense  I 
took  the  liberty  of  disbelieving.  He  accompanied  me  into  Mr. 
Wickfield's  room,  which  was  the  shadow  of  its  former  self 
— having  been  divested  of  a  variety  of  conveniences,  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  new  partner — and  stood  before  the 


5<y4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

fire,  warming  his  back,  and  shaving  his  chin  with  hi*  bony 
hand,  while  Mr.  Wickfield  and  I  exchanged  greetings. 

"  You  stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  while  you  remain  in  Can- 
terbury ?"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  not  without  a  glance  at  Uriah 
for  his  approval. 

"  Is  there  room  for  me  ?"  said  I. 

"  I  am  sure.  Master  Copperfield — I  should  say  Mister, 
but  the  other  comes  so  natural,"  said  Uriah — "  I  would  turn 
out  of  your  old  room  with  pleasure,  if  it  would  be  agreeable." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  Why  should  you  be  incon- 
venienced?   There's  another  room.     "^Jliere's  another  room." 

"Oh,  but  you  know,"  returned  Uriah,  with  a  grin,  *' I 
should  really  be  delighted!" 

To  cut  the  matter  short,  I  said  I  would  have  the  other 
room  or  none  at  all;  so  it  was  settled  that  I  should  have  the 
other  room;  and,  taking  my  leave  of  the  firm  until  dinner, 
I  went  up-stairs  again. 

I  had  hoped  to  have  no  other  companion  than  Agnes. 
But  Mrs.  Heep  had  asked  permission  to  bring  herself  and 
her  knitting  near  the  fire,  in  that  room;  on  pretense  of  its 
having  an  aspect  more  favorable  for  her  rheumatics,  as  the 
wind  then  was,  than  the  drawing-room  or  dining-parlor. 
Though  I  could  almost  have  consigned  her  to  the  mercies  of 
the  wind  at  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  the  Cathedral,  without 
remorse,  I  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  gave  her  a 
friendly  salutation. 

"  I'm  umbly  thankful  to  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs,  Heep,  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  my  inquiries  concerning  her  health,  "  but 
I'm  only  pretty  well.  I  haven't  much  to  boast  of.  If  I 
could  see  my  Uriah  well  settled  in  life,  I  couldn't  expect 
much  more,  I  think.  How  do  you  think  my  Ury  looking, 
sir?" 

I  thought  him  looking  as  villainous  as  ever,  and  I  replied 
that  I  saw  no  change  in  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  think  he's  changed  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Heep. 
"  There  I  most  umbly  beg  leave  to  differ  from  you.  Don't 
you  see  a  thinness  in  him  ?" 

"  Not  more  than  usual,"  I  replied. 

"  ^^«'/ you  though  ?"  said  Mrs.  Heep.  "  But  you  don't 
take  notice  of  him  with  a  mother's  eye!" 

His  mother's  eye  was  an  evil  eye  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
I  thought,  as  it  met  mine,  howsoever  affectionate  to  him; 
and  I  believe  she  and  her  son  were  devoted  to  one  another. 
It  passed  me,  and  went  on  to  Agnes. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  565 

"  Don*t  you  see  a  wasting  and  a  wearing  in  him,  Miss 
Wickfield  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Heep. 

**  No,"  said  Agnes,  quietly  pursuing  the  work  on  which 
she  was  engaged.  "  You  are  too  solicitous  about  him.  He 
is  very  well!" 

Mrs.  Heep,  with  a  prodigious  sniff,   resumed  her  knitting. 

She  never  left  off,  or  left  us  for  a  moment.  I  had  arrived 
early  in  the  day,  and  we  had  still  three  or  four  hours  before 
dinner;  but  she  sat  there,  plying  her  knitting-needles  as 
monotonously  as  an  hour-glass  might  have  poured  out  its 
sands.  She  sat  on  one  side  of  the  fire;  I  sat  at  the  desk  in 
front  of  it;  a  little  beyond  me,  on  the  other  side,  sat  Agnes. 
Whensoever,  slowly  pondering  over  my  letter,  I  lifted  up  my 
eyes,  and  meeting  the  thoughtful  face  of  Agnes,  saw  it  clear, 
and  beam  encouragement  upon  me,  with  its  own  angelic  ex- 
pression, I  was  conscious  presently  of  the  evil  eye  passing 
me,  and  going  on  to  her,  and  coming  back  to  me  again,  and 
going  on  to  her,  and  coming  back  to  me  again,  and  dropping 
furtively  upon  the  knitting.  What  the  knitting  was,  I  don't 
know,  not  being  learned  in  that  art;  but  it  looked  like  a  net; 
and  as  she  worked  away  with  those  Chinese  chop-sticks  of 
knitting-needles,  she  showed  in  the  firelight  like  an  ill-look- 
ing enchantress,  balked  as  yet  by  the  radiant  goodness  op- 
posite, but  getting  ready  for  a  cast  of  her  net  by-and-by. 

At  dinner  she  maintained  her  watch,  with  the  same  un- 
winking eyes.  After  dinner,  her  sori  took  his  turn;. and 
when  Mr.  Wickfield,  himself,  and  I  were  left  alone  together, 
leered  at  me,  and  writhed  until  I  could  hardly  bear  it.  In 
the  drawing-room,  there  was  the  mother  knitting  and  watch- 
ing again.  All  the  time  that  Agnes  sang  and  played,  the 
mother  sat  at  the  piano.  Once  she  asked  for  a  particular 
ballad,  which  she  said  her  Ury  (who  was  yawning  in  a  great 
chair)  doted  on;  and  at  intervals  she  looked  round  at  him, 
and  reported  to  Agnes  that  he  was  in  raptures  with  the 
music.  But  she  hardly  ever  spoke — I  question  if  she  ever 
did — without  making  some  mention  of  him.  It  was  evident 
to  me  that  this  was  the  duty  assigned  to  her. 

This  lasted  until  bedtime.  To  have  seen  the  mother  and 
son,  like  two  great  bats  hanging  over  the  whole  house,  and 
darkening  it  with  their  ugly  forms,  made  me  s©  uncomfort- 
able, ^hat  I  would  rather  have  remained  down  stairs,  knit- 
ting and  all,  than  gone  to  bed.  I  hardly  got  any  sleep.  Next 
day  the  knitting  and  watching  began  again,  and  lasted  all 
day. 


$€6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  had  not  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Agnes,  for  ten 
minutes.  I  could  barely  show  her  my  letter.  I  proposed  to 
her  to  walk  out  with  me;  but  Mrs.  Heep  repeatedly  com- 
plaining that  she  was  worse,  Agnes  charitably  remained 
within,  to  bear  her  company.  Towards  the  twilight  I  went 
out  by  myself,  musing  on  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  whether 
I  was  justified  in  withholding  from  Agnes,  any  longer,  what 
Uriah  Heep  had  told  me  in  London;  for  that  began  to 
trouble  me  again,  very  much. 

I  had  not  walked  out  far  enough  to  be  quite  clear  of  the 
town,  upon  the  Ramsgate  road,  where  there  was  a  good  path, 
when  I  was  hailed,  through  the  dusk,  by  somebody  behind 
me.  The  shambling  figure,  and  the  scanty  great-coat,  were 
not  to  be  mistaken.     I  stopped,  and  Uriah  Heep  came  up. 

"Well?"  said  I. 

"  How  fast  you  walk  !"  said  he.  **  My  legs  are  pretty  long, 
but  you've  given  'em  quite  a  job." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  said  I. 

"  I  am  coming  with  you.  Master  Copperfield,  if  you'll  al- 
l')w  me  the  pleasure  of  a  walk  with  an  old  acquaintance." 
Saying  this,  with  a  jerk  of  his  body,  which  might  have  been 
either  propitiatory  or  derisive,  he  fell  into  step  beside  me. 

"  Uriah  !"  said  I,  as  civilly  as  I  could,  after  a  silence. 

"  Master  Copperfield  !"  said  Uriah. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth  (at  which  you  will  not  be  offended), 
I  came  out  to  walk  alone,  because  I  have  had  so  much  com- 
pany." 

He  looked  at  me  sideways,  and  said  with  his  hardest  grin, 
"  You  mean  mother  !" 

"Why  yes,  I  do,"  said  I. 

"Ah  !  But  you  know  we're  so  very  umble,"  he  returned. 
"  And  having  such  a  knowledge  of  our  own  umbleness,  we 
must  really  take  care  that  we're  not  pushed  to  the  wall  by 
them  as  isn't  humble.     All  stratagems   are  fair  in  love,  sir." 

Raising  his  great  hands  until  they  touched  his  chin,  he 
rubbed  them  softly,  and  softly  chuckled;  looking  as  like  a 
malevolent  baboon,  I  thought,  as  anything  human  could 
look. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  still  hugging  himself  in  that  un- 
pleasant way,  and  shaking  his  head  at  me,  "  you're  quite  a 
dangerous  rival.  Master  Copperfield.  You  always  was,  you 
know." 

"  Do  you  set  a  watch  upon  Miss  Wickfield,  and  make  her 
home  no  home,  because  of  me  !"  said  I. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  567 

"  Oh  !  Master  Copperfield  !  Those  are  very  harsh  words," 
he  replied. 

*'  Put  my  meaning  into  any  words  you  like,"  said  I.  "  You 
know  what  it  is,  Uriah,  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Oh  no!  You  must  put  it  into  words,"  he  said.  "  Oh, 
really!  I  couldn't  myself." 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  said  I,  constraining  myself  to  be  very 
temperate  and  quiet  with  him,  on  account  of  Agnes,  "  that 
I  regard  Miss  Wickfield  otherwise  than  as  a  very  dear  sister?" 

"  Well,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  replied,  *'  you  perceive  I 
am  not  bound  to  answer  that  question.  You  may  not,  you 
know.     But  then,  you  see,  you  may!" 

Anything  to  equal  the  low  cunning  of  his  visage,  and  of 
his  shadowless  eyes  without  the  ghost  of  an  eyelash,  I  never 
saw. 

"Come,  then!"  said  I.  "For  the  sake  of  Miss  Wick- 
field  " 

"  My  Agnes!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sickly,  angular  con- 
tortion of  himself.  "  Would  you  be  so  good  as  call  her 
Agnes,  Master  Copperfield!" 

*'  For  the  sake  of  Agnes  Wickfield — Heaven  bless  her!" 

"  Thank  you  for  that  blessing,  Master  Copperfield!"  he 
interposed. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should,  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, as  soon  have  thought  of  telling  to — Jack  Ketch." 

"  To  who,  sir?"  said  Uriah,  stretching  out  his  neck,  and 
shading  his  ear  with  his  hand. 

"  To  the  hangman,"  I  returned.  "  The  most  unlikely 
person  I  could  think  of," — though  his  own  face  had  sug- 
gested the  allusion  quite  as  a  natural  sequence.  "  I  am  en- 
gaged to  another  young  lady.     I  hope  that  contents  you." 

"  Upon  your  soul?"  said  Uriah. 

I  was  about  indignantly  to  give  my  assertion  the  confirm- 
ation he  required,  when  he  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and 
gave  it  a  squeeze. 

"  Oh,  Master  Copperfield!"  he  said.  "  If  you  had  only 
had  the  condescension  to  return  my  confidence  when  I 
poured  out  the  fullness  of  my  art,  the  night  I  put  you  so 
much  out  of  the  way  by  sleeping  before  your  sitting-room 
fire,  I  never  should  have  doubted  you.  As  it  is,  I'm  sure  I'll 
take  off  mother  directly,  and  only  two  appy.  I  know  you'll 
excuse  the  precautions  of  affection,  won't  you?  What  a 
pity,  Master  Copperfield,  that  you  didn't  condescend  to  re- 


568  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

turn  my  confidence!  I'm  sure  I  gave  you  every  opportunity. 
But  you  never  have  condescended  to  me  as  much  as  I  could 
have  wished.  I  know  you  have  never  liked  me,  as  I  have 
liked  you!" 

All  this  time  he  was  squeezing  my  hand  with  his  damp 
fishy  fingers,  while  I  made  every  effort  I  decently  could  to 
get  it  away.  But  I  was  quite  unsuccessful.  He  drew  it 
under  the  sleeve  of  his  mulberry-colored  great-coat,  and  I 
walked  on,  almost  upon  compulsion,  arm  in  arm  with 
him. 

"  Shall  we  turn?"  said  Uriah,  by-and-by  wheeling  me  face 
about  towards  the  town,  on  which  the  early  moon  was  now 
shining,  silvering  the  distant  windows. 
"  "  Before  we  leave  the  subject,  you  ought  to  understand," 
said  I,  breaking  a  pretty  long  silence,  "  that  I  believe  Agnes 
Wickfield  to  be  as  far  above  youy  and  as  far  removed  from 
all  your  aspirations,  as  that  moon  herself!" 

"Peaceful!  Ain't  she!"  said  Uriah.  "Very!  Now  con- 
fess, Master  Copperfield,  that  you  haven't  liked  me  quite  as 
I  have  liked  you.  All  along  you've  thought  me  too  umble 
now,  I  shouldn't  wonder?" 

"  I  am  not  fond  of  professions  of  humility,"  I  returned, 
"or  professions  of  anything  else." 

"There  now!"  said  Uriah,  looking  flabby  and  lead-col- 
ored in  the  moonlight.  "  Didn't  I  know  it!  But  how  little 
you  think  of  the  rightful  umbleness  of  a  person  in  my  sta- 
tion. Master  Copperfield!  Father  and  me  was  both  brought 
up  at  a  foundation  school  for  boys;  and  mother,  she  was 
likewise  brought  up  at  a  public,  sort  of  charitable,  establish- 
ment. They  taught  us  all  a  deal  of  umbleness — not  much 
else  that  I  know  of,  frorn  morning  to  night.  We  was  to  be 
umble  to  this  person,  and  umble  to  that;  and  to  pull  off  our 
caps  here,  and  to  make  bows  there;  and  always  to  know  our 
place,  and  abase  ourselves  before  our  betters.  And  we  had 
such  a  lot  of  betters!  Father  got  the  monitor-medal  by 
being  umble.  So  did  I.  Father  got  made  a  sexton  by  be- 
ing umble.  He  had  the  character,  among  the  gentlefolks, 
of  being  such  a  well-behaved  man,  that  they  were  deter- 
mined to  bring  him  in.  *  Be  umble,  Uriah,'  says  father, 
*  and  you'll  get  on.  It  was  what  was  always  being  dinned 
into  you  and  me  at  school;  it's  what  goes  down  best.  Be 
umble,'  says  father,  'and  you'll  do!'  And  really  it  ain't 
done  bad!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  569 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  occurred  to  me  that 
this  detestable  cant  of  false  humility  might  have  originated 
out  of  the  Heep  family.  I  had  seen  the  harvest,  but  had 
never  thought  of  the  seed. 

"  When  I  was  quite  a  young  boy,"  said  Uriah,  "  I  got  to 
know  what  umbleness  did,  and  I  took  to  it.  I  ate  umble 
pie  with  an  appetite.  I  stopped  at  the  umble  point  of  my 
learning,  and  says  I:  *  Hold  hard!'  When  you  offered  to 
teach  me  Latin,  I  knew  better.  *  People  like  to  be  above 
you,'  says  father,  '  keep  yourself  down.'  I  am  very  umble 
to  the  present  moment.  Master  Copperfield,  but  I've  got  a 
little  power!" 

And  he  said  all  this — I  knew,  as  I  saw  his  face  in  the 
moonlight — that  I  might  understand  he  was  resolved  to 
recompense  himself  by  using  his  power.  I  had  never 
doubted  his  meanness,  his  craft  and  malice;  but  I  fully  com- 
prehended now,  for  the  first  time,  what  a  base,  unrelenting, 
and  revengeful  spirit,  must  have  been  engendered  by  this 
early,  and  this  long,  suppression. 

His  account  of  himself  was  so  far  attended  with  an 
agreeable  result,  that  it  led  to  his  withdrawing  his  hand  in 
order  that  he  might  have  another  hug  of  himself  under  the 
chin.  Once  apart  from  him  I  was  determined  to  keep 
apart;  and  we  walked  back,  side  by  side,  saying  very  little 
more  by  the  way. 

Whether  his  spirits  were  elevated  by  the  communication  I 
had  made  to  him,  or  by  his  having  indulged  in  this  retro- 
spect, I  don't  know;  but  they  were  raised  by  some  influ- 
ence. He  talked  more  at  dinner  than  was  usual  with  him; 
asked  his  mother  (off  duty  from  the  moment  of  our  re-enter- 
ing the  house)  whether  he  was  not  growing  too  old  for  a 
bachelor;  and  once  looked  at  Agnes  so,  that  I  would  have 
given  all  I  had,  for  leave  to  knock  him  down. 

When  we  three  males  were  left  alone  after  dinner,  he  got 
into  a  more  adventurous  state.  He  had  taken  little  or  no 
wine;  and  I  presume  it  was  the  mere  insolence  of  triumph 
that  was  upon  him,  flushed  perhaps  by  the  temptation  my 
presence  furnished  to  its  exhibition. 

I  had  observed  yesterday,  that  he  tried  to  entice  Mr. 
Wickfield  to  drink;  and,  interpreting  the  look  which  Agnes 
had  given  me  as  she  went  out,  had  limited  myself  to  one 
glass,  and  then  proposed  that  we  should  follow  her.  '  I 
would  have  done  so  again  to-day;  but  Uriah  was  too  quick 
for  me. 


570  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**We  seldom  see  our  present  visitor,  sir,"  he  said,  address- 
ing Mr.  Wickfield,  sitting,  such  a  contrast  to  him,  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  *'  and  I  should  propose  to  give  him  wel- 
come in  another  glass  or  two  of  wine,  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tions.    Mr.  Copperfield,  your  elth  and  appiness  ?" 

I  was  obliged  to  make  a  show  of  taking  the  hand  he 
stretched  across  to  me;  and  then,  with  very  different  emo- 
tions, I  took  the  hand  of  the  broken  gentleman,  his  part- 
ner. 

"  Come,  fellow  partner,"  said  Uriah,  "  if  I  may  take  the 
liberty,  now  suppose  you  give  us  something  or  another  ap- 
propriate to  Copperfield!" 

I  pass  over  Mr.  Wickfield's  proposing  my  aunt,  his  pro- 
posing Mr.  Dick,  his  proposing  Doctors'  Commons,  his  pro- 
posing Uriah,  his  drinking  everything  twice;  his  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  weakness,  the  ineffectual  effort  that  he  made 
against  it;  the  struggle  between  his  shame  in  Uriah's  deport- 
ment, and  his  desire  to  conciliate  him;  the  manifest  exulta- 
tion with  which  Uriah  twisted  and  turned,  and  held  him  up 
before  me.  It  made  me  sick  at  heart  to  see,  and  my  hand 
recoils  from  writing  it. 

"  Come,  fellow  partner!"  said  Uriah,  at  last,  "  Fll  give  you 
another  one,  and  I  umbly  ask  for  bumpers,  seeing  I  intend 
to  make  it  the  divinest  of  her  sex." 

Her  father  had  his  empty  glass  in  his  hand.  I  saw  him 
set  it  down,  look  at  the  picture  she  was  so  like,  put  his  hand 
to  his  forehead,  and  shrink  back  in  his  elbow  chair. 

"  I'm  an  umble  individual  to  give  you  her  elth,"  proceeded 
Uriah,  "  but  I  admire — adore  her." 

No  physical  pain  that  her  father's  gray  head  could  have 
borne,  I  think,  could  have  been  more  terrible  to  me  than  the 
mental  endurance  I  saw  compressed  now  within  both  his  hands. 

"  Agnes,"  said  Uriah,  either  not  regarding  him,  or  not 
knowing  what  the  nature  of  his  action  was,  "  Agnes  Wick- 
field is,  I  am  safe  to  say,  the  divinest  of  her  sex.  May  I 
speak  out,  among  friends  ?  To  be  her  father  is  a  proud 
distinction,  but  to  be  her  usband — " 

Spare  me  from  ever  again  hearing  such  a  cry  as  that  with 
which  her  father  rose  up  from  the  table! 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Uriah,  turning  of  a  deadly 
color.  "  You  are  not  gone  mad,  after  all,  Mr.  Wickfield,  I 
ho{)e  ?  If  I  say  I've  an  ambition  to  make  your  Agnes  my 
Agnes,  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  it  as  another  man.  I  have 
a  better  right  to  it  than  any  other  man !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  571 

I  had  my  arms  round  Mr.  Wickfield,  imploring  hirn  by 
every  thing  I  could  think  of,  oftenest  of  all  by  his  love  for 
Agnes,  to  calm  himself  a  little.  He  was  mad  for  the 
moment:  tearing  out  his  hair,  beating  his  head,  trying  to 
force  me  from  him,  and  to  force  himself  from  me,  not  an- 
swering a  word,  not  looking  at  or  seeing  anyone;  blindly 
striving  for  he  knew  not  what,  his  face  all  staring  and  dis- 
torted— a  frightful  spectacle. 

I  conjured  him,  incoherently,  but  in  the  most  impassioned 
manner,  not  to  abandon  himself  to  this  wildness,  but  to  hear 
me.  I  besought  him  to  think  of  Agnes,  to  connect  me  with 
Agnes,  to  recollect  how  Agnes  and  I  had  grown  up  together, 
how  I  honored  her  and  loved  her,  how  she  was  his  pride  and 
joy.  I  tried  to  bring  her  idea  before  him  in  any  form;  I 
even  reproached  him  with  not  having  firmness  to  spare  her 
the  knowledge  of  such  a  scene  as  this.  I  may  have  effected 
something,  or  his  wildness  may  have  spent  itself;  but  by  de- 
grees he  struggled  less,  and  began  to  look  at  me — strangely, 
at  first,  then  with  recognition  in  his  eyes.  At  length  he  said, 
"  I  know  Trotwood  !  My  darling  child  and  you — I  know  ! 
But  look  at  him  !" 

He  pointed  to  Uriah,  pale  and  glowering  in  a  corner, 
evidently  very  much  cut  in  his  calculations,  and  taken  by 
surprise. 

"  Look  at  my  torturer,"  he  replied.  "  Before  him  I  have 
step  by  step  abandoned  name  and  reputation,  peace  and 
quiet,  house  and  home  !" 

"  I  have  kept  your  name  and  reputation  for  you,  and 
your  peace  and  quiet,  and  your  house  and  home  too,"  said 
Uriah,  with  a  sulky,  hurried,  defeated  air  of  compromise. 
"  Don't  be  foolish,  Mr.  Wickfield.  If  I  have  gone  a  little 
beyond  what  you  were  prepared  for,  I  can  go  back,  I  sup- 
pose ?     There's  no  harm  done." 

"  I  looked  for  single  motives  in  every  one,"  said  Mr. 
Wickfield,  "and  I  was  satisfied  I  had  bound  him  to  me  by 
motives  of  interest.     But  see  what  he  is — oh,  see  what  he  is!" 

"  You  had  better  stop  him,  Copperfield,  if  you  can,"  cried 
Uriah,  with  his  long  forefinger  pointing  towards  me. 
"  He'll  say  something  presently — mind  you  ! — he'll  be  sorry 
to  have  said  afterwards,  and  you'll  be  sorry  to  have  heard!" 

"I'll  say  anything!"  cried  Mr.  Wickfield,  with  a  desperate 
air.  "  Why  should  I  not  be  in  all  the  world's  power  if  I  am 
in  yours !" 


572  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

''  Mind  !  I  tell  you  !"  said  Uriah,  continuing  to  warn  me. 
"  If  you  don't  stop  his  mouth,  you're  not  his  friend  !  Why 
shouldn't  you  be  in  all  the  world's  power,  Mr.  Wickfield  ? 
Because  you  have  got  a  daughter.  You  and  me  know  what 
we  know,  don't  we  ?  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie — who  wants  to 
rouse  'em  ?  I  don't.  Can't  you  see  I  am  as  umble  as  I  can 
be  ?  I  tell  you,  if  I've  gone  too  far,  I'm  sorry.  What  would 
you  have,  sir  ?" 

*'Oh,  Trotwood,  Trotwood  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wickfield, 
wringing  his  hands.  ''  What  I  have  come  down  to  be,  since  I 
first  saw  you  in  this  house  !  I  was  on  my  downward  way 
then,  but  the  dreary,  dreary  road  I  have  traversed  since  ! 
Weak  indulgence  has  ruined  me.  Indulgence  in  remem- 
brance, and  indulgence  in  forgetfulness.  My  natural  grief 
for  my  child's  mother  turned  to  disease;  my  natural  love 
for  my  child  turned  to  disease.  I  have  infected  everything 
I  touched.  I  have  brought  misery  on  what  I  dearly  love, 
I  know —  You  know  !  I  thought  it  possible  that  I  could 
truly  love  one  creature  in  the  world,  and  not  love  the  rest; 
I  thought  it  possible  that  I  could  truly  mourn  for  one  crea- 
ture gone  out  of  the  world,  and  not  have  some  part  in  the 
grief  of  all  who  mourned.  Thus  the  lessons  of  my  life  have 
been  perverted  !  I  have  preyed  on  my  own  morbid  coward 
heart,  and  it  has  preyed  on  me.  Sordid  in  my  grief,  sordid 
in  my  love,  sordid  in  my  miserable  escape  from  the  darker 
side  of  both,  oh  see  the  ruin  I  am,  and  hate  me,  shun 


me 


He  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  weakly  sobbed.  The  ex- 
citement into  which  he  had  been  roused  was  leaving  him. 
Uriah  came  out  of  his  corner. 

"  I  don't  know  all  I  have  done,  in  my  fatuity,"  said  Mr. 
Wickfield,  putting  out  his  hands,  as  if  to  deprecate  my  con- 
demnation. "Zr<?  knows  best,"  meaning  Uriah  Heep,  "for 
he  has  always  been  at  my  elbow  whispering  me.  You  see 
the  millstone  that  he  is  about  my  neck.  You  find  him  in 
my  house,  you  find  him  in  my  business.  You  heard  him, 
but  a  little  time  ago.     What  need  have  I  to  say  more  !" 

"  You  haven't  need  to  say  so  much,  nor  half  so  much,  nor 
anything  at  all,"  observed  Uriah,  half  defiant  and  half  fawn- 
ing. "You  wouldn't  have  took  it  up  so,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  wine.  You'll  think  better  of  it  to-morrow,  sir.  If  I 
have  said  too  much,  or  more  than  I  meant,  what  of  it  1  I 
haven't  stood  by  it!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  573 

The  door  opened,  and  Agnes,  gliding  in,  without  a  vestige 
of  color  in  her  face,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  steadily 
said:  "  Papa,  you  are  hot  well.  Come  with  me!"  He  laid  his 
head  upon  her  shoulder,  as  if  he  were  oppressed  with  heavy 
shame,  and  went  out  with  her.  Her  eyes  met  mine  for  but 
an  instant,  yet  I  saw  how  much  she  knew  of  what  had  passed. 

"  I  didn't  expect  he'd  cut  up  so  rough,  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah.  "  But  it's  nothing.  I'll  be  friends  with 
him  to-morrow.  It's  for  his  good.  I'm  umbly  anxious  for 
his  good." 

I  gave  him  no  answer,  and  went  up-stairs  into  the  quiet 
room  where  Agnes  had  so  often  sat  beside  me  at  my  books. 
Nobody  came  near  me  until  late  at  night.  I  took  up  a  book, 
and  tried  to  read.  I  heard  the  clocks  strike  twelve,  and  was 
still  reading,  without  knowing  what  I  read,  when  Agnes 
touched  me. 

"  You  will  be  going  early  in  the  morning,  Trotwood.  Let 
us  say   good-by  now!" 

She  had  been  weeping,  but  her  face  then  was  so  calm  and 
beautiful! 

"  Heaven  bless  you!"  she  said,  giving  me  her  hand. 

"Dearest  Agnes!"  I  returned,  "I  see  you  ask  me  not  to 
speak  of  to-night — but  is  there  nothing  to  be  done  ?" 

*'  There  is  God  to  trust  in!"  she  replied. 

**  Can  /  do  nothing — /,  who  come  to  you  with  my  poor 
sorrows?" 

"  And  make  mine  so  much  lighter,"  she  replied.  "  Dear 
Trotwood,  no!" 

"  Dear  Agnes,"  I  said,  "  it  is  presumptuous  for  me,  who 
am  so  poor  in  all  in  which  you  are  so  rich — goodness,  reso- 
lution, all  noble  qualities — to  doubt  or  direct  you;  but  you 
know  how  much  I  love  you,and  how  much  I  owe  you.  You  will 
never  sacrifice  yourself  to  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  Agnes?" 

More  agitated  for  a  moment  than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  she 
took  her  hand  from  me,  and  moved  a  step  back. 

"  Say  you  have  no  such  thought,  dear  Agnes !  Much  more 
than  sister!  Think  of  the  priceless  gift  of  such  a  heart  as 
yours,  of  such  a  love  as  yours!" 

Oh!  long,  long  afterwards,  I  saw  that  face  rise  up  before 
me,  with  its  momentary  look,  not  wondering,  not  accusing, 
not  regretting.  Oh,  long,  long  afterwards,  I  saw  that  look 
subside,  as  it  did  now,  into  the  lovely  smile,  with  which  she 
told  me  she  had  no  fear  for  herself — I  need  have  none  for 


574  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

her — and  parted  from  me  by  the  name  of  Brother,  and  was 
gone. 

It  was  dark  in  the  morning,  when  I  got  upon  the  coach  at 
the  inn  door.  The  day  was  just  breaking  when  we  were 
about  to  start,  and  then,  as  I  sat  thinking  of  her,  came  strug- 
gling up  the  coach  side,  through  the  mingled"  day  and  night, 
Uriah's  head. 

''  Copperfield!"  said  he,  in  a  croaking  whisper,  as  he  hung 
by  the  iron  on  the  roof,  "  I  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  hear 
before  you  went  off,  that  there  are  no  squares  broke  between 
us.  I've  been  into  his  room  already,  and  we've  made  it  all 
smooth.  Why,  though  I'm  umble,  I'm  useful  to  him,  you 
know;  and  he  understands  his  interest  when  he  isn't  in 
liquor!  What  an  agreeable  man  he  is,  after  all.  Master  Cop- 
perfield !" 

I  obliged  myself  to  say  that  I  was  very  glad  he  had  made 
his  apology. 

'*  Oh,  to  be  sure!"  said  Uriah.  "When  a  person's  umble, 
you  know,  what's  an  apology  ?  So  easy!  I  say!  I  suppose," 
with  a  jerk,  "you  have  sometimes  plucked  a  pear  before  it 
was  ripe,  Master  Copperfield  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  have,"  I  replied. 

"/did  that  last  night,"  said  Uriah;  "but  it'll  ripen  yetl 
It  only  wants  attending  to.     I  can  wait." 

Profuse  in  his  farewells,  he  got  down  again  as  the  coach- 
man got  up.  For  anything  I  know,  he  was  eating  something 
to  keep  the  raw  morning  air  out;  but  he  made  motions  with 
his  mouth  as  if  the  pear  were  ripe  already,  and  he  were 
smacking  his  lips  over  it. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE    WANDERER. 

We  had  a  very  serious  conversation  in  Buckingham  Street 
that  night,  about  the  domestic  occurrences  I  have  detailed 
in  the  last  chapter.  My  aunt  was  deeply  interested  in  them, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  her  arms  folded, 
for  more  than  two  hours  afterwards.  When  she  was  partic- 
ularly discomposed,  she  always  performed  one  of  these  pe- 
destrian feats;  and  the  amount  of  her  discomposure  might 
always  be  estimated  by  the  duration  of  her  walk.     On  this 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  575 

occasion  she  was  so  much  disturbed  in  mind  as  to  find  it 
necessary  to  open  the  bed-room  door,  and  make  a  course 
for  herself,  comprising  the  full  extent  of  the  bed-rooms  from 
wall  to  wall;  and  while  Mr.  Dick  and  I  sat  quietly  by  the 
fire,  she  kept  passing  in  and  out,  along  this  measured  track, 
at  an  unchanging  pace,  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock-pen- 
dulum. 

When  my  aunt  and  I  were  left  to  ourselves  by  Mr.  Dick's 
going  out  to  bed,  I  sat  down  to  write  my  letter  to  the  two 
old  ladies.  By  that  time  she  was  tired  of  walking,  and  sat 
by  the  fire  with  her  dress  tucked  up  as  usual.  But  instead 
of  sitting  in  her  usual  manner,  holding  her  glass  upon  her 
knee,  she  suffered  it  to  stand  neglected  on  the  chimney- 
piece;  and,  resting  her  left  elbow  on  her  right  arm,  and  her 
chin  on  her  left  hand,  looked  thoughtfully  at  me.  As  often 
as  I  raised  my  eyes  from  what  I  was  about,  I  met  hers.  "  I 
am  in  the  lovingest  of  tempers,  my  dear,"  she  would  assure 
me  with  a  nod,  "but  I  am  fidgeted  and  sorry!" 

I  had  been  too  busy  to  observe,  until  after  she  was  gone 
to  bed,  that  she  had  left  her  night-mixture,  as  she  always 
called  it,  untasted  on  the  chimney-piece.  She  came  to  her 
door,  with  even  more  than  her  usual  affection  of  manner, 
when  I  knocked  to  acquaint  her  with  this  discovery;  but 
only  said  "  I  have  not  the  heart  to  take  it,  Trot,  to-night," 
and  shook  her  head  and  went  in  again. 

She  read  my  letter  to  the  two  old  ladies,  in  the  morning, 
and  approved  of  it.  I  posted  it,  and  had  nothing  to  do 
then,  but  wait,  as  patiently  as  I  could,  for  the  reply.  I  was 
still  in  this  state  of  expectation,  and  had  been,  for  nearly  a 
week;  when  I  left  the  Doctor's  one  stormy  night,to  walk  home. 

It  had  been  a  bitter  day,  and  a  cutting  north-east  wind 
had  blown  for  some  time.  The  wind  had  gone  down  with 
the  light,  and  so  the  snow  had  come  on.  It  was  a  heavy, 
settled  fall,  I  recollect,  in  great  flakes;  and  it  lay  thick. 
The  noise  of  wheels  and  tread  of  people  were  as  hushed,  as 
if  the  streets  had  been  strewn  that  depth  with  feathers. 

My  shortest  way  home — and  I  naturally  took  the  shortest 
way  on  such  a  night — was  through  St.  Martin's  Lane.  Now, 
the  church  which  gives  its  name  to  the  lane,  stood  in  a  less 
free  situation  at  that  time;  there  being  no  open  space  before 
it,  and  the  lane  winding  down  to  the  Strand.  As  I  passed 
the  steps  of  the  portico,  I  encountered,  at  the  corner,  a 
woman's  face.     It  looked  in  mine,  passed  across  the  narrow 


570  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

lane,  and  disappeared.  I  knew  it.  I  had  seen  it  some- 
where. But  I  could  not  remember  where.  I  had  some  as- 
sociation with  it,  that  struck  upon  my  heart  directly;  but  I 
was  thinking  of  anything  else  when  it  came  upon  me,  and 
was  confused. 

On  the  steps  of  the  church,  there  was  the  stooping  figure 
of  a  man,  who  had  put  down  some  burden  on  the  smooth 
snow,  to  adjust  it;  my  seeing  the  face,  and  my  seeing  him, 
were  simultaneous.  I  don't  think  I  had  stopped  in  my  sur- 
prise; but,  in  any  case,  as  I  went  on,  he  rose,  turned,  and 
came  down  towards  me.  I  stood  face  to  face  with  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

Then  I  remembered  the  woman.  It  was  Martha,  to  whom 
Emily  had  given  the  money  that  night  in  the  kitchen.  Mar- 
tha Endell — side  by  side  with  whom,  he  would  not  have 
seen  his  dear  niece.  Ham  had  told  me,  for  all  the  treasures 
wrecked  in  the  sea. 

We  shook  hands  heartily.  At  first  neither  of  us  could 
speak  a  word, 

"  Mas'r  Davy!"  he  said,  griping  me  tight,  "it  do  my  art 
good  to  see  you,  sir.     Well  met!  well  met!" 

"Well  met,  my  dear  old  friend!"  said  I. 

"  I  had  my  thowts  o'  coming  to  make  inquiration  for  you, 
sir,  to-night,"  he  said,  "  but  knowing  as  your  aunt  was  living 
along  wi'  you — for  I've  been  down  yonder — Yarmouth 
way — I  was  afeerd  it  was  too  late.  I  should  have  come 
early  in  the  morning,  sir,  afore  going  away." 

"  Again  ?"  said  I. 

"  Y^s,  sir,"  he  replied,  patiently  shaking  his  head.  "  I'm 
away  to-morrow.'* 

*'  Where  were  you  going  now  ?"  I  asked. 

"Well!"  he  replied,  shaking  the  snow  out  of  his  long 
hair,  "  I  was  agoing  to  turn  in  somewheers." 

In  those  days  there  was  a  side-entrance  to  the  stable-yard 
of  the  Golden  Cross,  the  inn  so  memorable  to  me  in  con- 
nexion with  his  misfortune,  nearly  opposite  to  where  we 
stood.  I  pointed  out  the  gateway,  put  my  arm  through  his, 
and  we  went  across.  Two  or  three  public  rooms  opened  out 
of  the  stable-yard;  and  looking  into  one  of  them,  and  finding 
it  empty,  and  a  good  fire  burning,  I  took  him  in  there. 

When  I  saw  him  in  the  light,  I  observed,  not  only  that 
his  hair  was  long  and  ragged,  but  that  his  face  was 
burnt  dark  by  the  sun.     He  was  grayer,  the   lines  in  his 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  577 

face  and  forehead  were  deeper,  and  he  had  every  appear- 
ance of  having  toiled  and  wandered  through  all  varieties 
of  weather;  but  he  looked  very  strong,  and  like  a  man 
upheld  by  steadfastness  of  purpose,  whom  nothing  could 
tire  out.  He  shook  the  snow  from  his  hat  and  clothes, 
and  brushed  it  away  from  his  face,  while  I  was  inwardly 
making  these  remarks.  As  he  sat  down  opposite  to  me 
at  a  table,  with  his  back  to  the  door  by  which  he  had 
entered,  he  put  out  his  rough  hand  again,  and  grasped  mine 
warmly. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said, — "  wheer-all  I've 
been,  and  what-all  we've  heerd.  I've  been  fur,  and  we've 
heerd  little;  but  I'll  tell  you!" 

i  rang  the  bell  for  something  hot  to  drink.  He  would 
have  nothing  stronger  than  ale;  and  while  it  was  being 
brought,  and  being  warmed  at  the  fire,  he  sat  thinking. 
There  was  a  fine  massive  gravity  in  his  face,  I  did  not  ven- 
ture to  disturb. 

"  When  she  was  a  child,"  he  said,  lifting  up  his  head 
soon  after  we  were  left  alone,  '*  she  used  to  talk  to  me  a 
deal  about  the  sea,  and  about  them  coasts  where  the  sea  got 
to  be  dark  blue,  and  to  lay  a-shining  and  a-shining  in  the 
sun.  I  thowt,  odd  times,  as  her  father  being  drownded  made 
her  think  on  it  so  much.  I  doen't  know,  you  see,  but  may- 
be she  believed — or  hoped — he  had  drifted  out  to  them 
parts,  where  the  flowers  is  always  a  blowing,  and  the  country 
bright." 

"  It  is  likely  to  have  been  a  childish  fancy,"  I  replied. 

"When  she  was — lost,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "I  know'd  in 
my  mind,  as  he  would  take  her  to  them  countries.  I 
know'd  in  my  mind,  as  he'd  have  told  her  wonders  of 
'em,  and  how  she  was  to  be  a  lady  theer,  and  how  he 
got  her  to  listen  to  him  first,  along  o'  sech  like.  When 
we  see  his  mother,  I  know'd  quite  well  as  I  was  right. 
I  went  across  channel  to  France,  and  landed  theer,  as  if 
I'd  fell  down  from  the  sky." 

I  saw  the  door  move,  and  the  snow  drift  in.  I  saw  it 
move  a  little  more,  and  a  hand  softly  interpose  to  keep  it 
'open. 

"  I  found  out  a  English  gentleman  as  was  in  authority," 
said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  and  told  him  I  was  agoing  to  seek  my 
niece.  He  got  me  them  papers  as  I  wanted  fur  to  carry  me 
through — I  doen't  rightly  know  how  they're  called— and  he 


578  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

would  have  given  me  money,  but  that  I  was  thankful  to 
have  no  need  on.  I  thank  him  kind,  for  all  he  done,  I'm 
sure!  *  I've  wrote  afore  you,'  he  says  to  me,  *and  I  shall 
speak  to  many  as  will  come  that  way,  and  many  will  know 
you,  fur  distant  from  here,  when  you're  a  travelling  alone.' 
I  told  him,  best  as  I  was  able,  what  my  gratitoode  was,  and 
went  my  way  through  France." 

"  Alone,  and  on  foot  T'  said  I. 

"  Mostly  afoot,"  he  rejoined;  "  sometimes  in  carts  along 
with  people  going  to  market;  sometimes  in  empty  coaches. 
Many  mile  a  day  afoot,  and  often  with  some  poor  soldier 
or  another,  travelling  to  see  his  friends.  I  couldn't  talk  to 
him,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "nor  he  to  me;  but  we  was  com- 
pany for  one  another,  too,  along  the  dusty  roads." 

I  should  have  known  that  by  his  friendly  tone. 

"  When  I  come  to  any  town,"  he  pursued,  "  I  found  the 
inn,  and  waited  about  the  yard  till  some  one  turned  up  (some 
one  mostly  did)  as  know'd  English.  Then  I  told  how  that 
I  was  on  my  way  to  seek  my  niece,  and  they  told  me  what 
gentlefolks  was  in  the  house,  and  I  waited  to  see  any  as 
seemed  like  her,  going  in  or  out.  When  it  warn't  Em'ly,  I 
went  on  agen.  By  little  and  little,  when  I  come  to  a  new 
village  or  that,  among  the  poor  people,  I  found  they  know'd 
about  me.  They  would  set  me  down  at  their  cottage  doors, 
and  give  me  what-not  fur  to  eat  and  drink,  and  show  me 
where  to  sleep;  and  many  a  woman,  Mas'r  Davy,  as  has 
had  a  daughter  of  about  Em'ly's  age,  I've  found  a-waiting  for 
me,  at  Our  Saviour's  Cross  outside  the  village,  fur  to  do  me 
sim'  lar  kindnesses.  Some  has  had  daughters  as  was  dead. 
And  God  only  knows  how  good  them  mothers  was  to  me!" 

It  was  Martha  at  the  door.  I  saw  her  haggard,  listening 
face  distinctly.  My  dread  was  lest  he  should  turn  his 
head,  and  see  her  too. 

"They  would  often  put  their  children — partic'ler  their 
Httle  girls,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "upon  my  knee;  and  many  a 
time  you  might  have  seen  me  sitting  at  their  doors,  when 
night  was  coming  on,  almost  as  if  they'd  been  my  Darling's 
children.     Oh,  my  Darling!"  . 

Overpowered  by  sudden  grief,  he  sobbed  aloud.  I  laid 
my  trembling  hand  upon  the  hand  he  put  before  his  face. 
"  Thankee,  sir,"  he  said,"doen't  take  no  notice." 

In  a  very  little  while  he  took  his  hand  away  and  put  it  in 
his  breast,  and  went  on  with  his  story. 

"  They  often  walked  with  me,"  he  said,  "  in  the  morning, 
maybe  a  mile  or  two  upon  the  road;  and  when  we  parted, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  579 

and  I  said,  *I'm  very  thankful  to  you!  God  bless  you!'  they 
always  seemed  to  understand,  and  answered  pleasant.  At 
last  I  come  to  the  sea.  It  warn't  hard,  you  may  suppose, 
for  a  seafaring  man  like  me  to  work  his  way  over  to  Italy. 
When  I  got  theer,  I  wandered  on  as  I  had  done  afore.  The 
people  was  just  as  good  to  me,  and  I  should  have  gone  from 
town  to  town,  maybe  the  country  through,  but  that  I  got 
news  of  her  being  seen  among  them  Swiss  mountains  yon- 
der. One  as  know'd  his  servant  see  'em  there,  all  three,  and 
told  me  how  they  traveled,  and  where  they  was.  I  made  for 
them  mountains,  Mas'r  Davy,  day  and  night.  Ever  so  fur  as 
I  went,  ever  so  fur  the  mountains  seemed  to  shift  away  from 
me.  But  I  come  up  with  'em,  and  I  crossed  'em.  When  I 
got  nigh  the  place  as  I  had  been  told  of,  I  began  to  think 
within  my  own  self,  'What  shall  I  do  when  I  see  her.?'  " 

The  listening  face,  insensible  to  the  inclement  night,  still 
drooped  at  the  door,  and  the  hands  begged  me — prayed  me 
— not  to  cast  it  forth. 

" I  never  doubted  her,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "No!  not  a 
bit!  On'y  let  me  see  her  face — on'y  let  me  heer  her  voice 
— on'y  let  my  stanning  still  afore  her  bring  to  her  thoughts 
the  home  she  had  fled  away  from,  and  the  child  she  had 
been — and  if  she  had  grow'd  to  be  a  royal  lady,  she'd  have 
fell  down  at  my  feet!  I  know'd  it  well!  Many  a  time  in  my 
sleep  had  I  heerd  her  cry  out,  'Uncle!'  and  seen  her  fall 
like  death  afore  me.  Many  a  time  in  my  sleep  had  I  raised 
her  up,  and  whispered  to  her,  *  Em'ly,  my  dear,  I  am  come 
fur  to  bring  forgiveness,  and  to  take  you  home!* " 

He  stopped  and  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  a  sigh. 

"  He  was  nowt  to  me  now.  Em'ly  was  all.  I  bought  a 
country  dress  to  put  upon  her;  and  I  know'd  that,  once 
found,  she  would  walk  beside  me  over  them  stony  roads,  go 
where  I  would,  and  never,  never,  leave  me  more.  To  put 
that  dress  upon  her,  and  to  cast  off  what  she  wore — to  take 
her  on  my  arm  again,  and  wander  towards  home — to  stop 
sometimes  upon  the  road,  and  heal  her  bruised  feet  and  her 
worse-bruised  heart — was  all  that  I  thowt  of  now.  I  doen't 
believe  I  should  have  done  so  much  as  look  at  him.  But, 
Mas'r  Davy,  it  warn't  to  be — not  yet!  I  was  too  late,  and 
they  was  gone.  Wheer,  I  couldn't  learn.  Some  said  heer, 
some  said  theer.  •  I  traveled  heer,  and  I  traveled  theer, 
but  I  found  no  Em'ly,  and  I  traveled   home." 

"  How  long  ago  ?"  I  asked. 


i^8o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  A  matter  o'  fower  days,'*  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  I  sighted 
the  old  boat  arter  dark,  and  the  Hght  a  shining  in  the  win- 
der. When  I  come  nigh  and  looked  in  through  the  glass,  I 
see  the  faithful  creetur  Missis  Gummidge  sittin'  by  the  fire, 
as  Ave  had  fixed  upon,  alone.  I  called  out,  *  Doen't  be 
afeerd!  It's  Dan'l!'  and  I  went  in.  I  never  could  have 
thowt  the  old  boat  would  have  been  so  strange!" 

From  some  pocket  in  his  breast,  he  took  out,  with  a  very 
careful  hand,  a  small  paper  bundle  containing  two  or  three 
letters  or  little  packets,  which  he  laid  upon  the  table. 

"  This  first  one  come,"  he  said,  selecting  it  from  the  rest, 
"afore  I  had  been  gone  a  week.  A  fifty  pound  Bank  note, 
in  a  sheet  of  paper,  directed  to  me,  and  put  underneath  the 
door  in  the  night.  She  tried  to  hide  her  writing  but  she 
couldn't  hide  it  from  Me!" 

He  folded  up  the  note,  with  great  patience  and  care,  in 
exactly  the  same  form,  and  laid  it  on  one  side. 

"  This  come  to  Misses  Gummidge,"  he  said,  opening 
another,  "two  or  three  months  ago."  After  looking  at  it 
for  some  moments,  he  gave  it  to  me,  and  added  in  a  low 
voice,  "  be  so  good  as  read  it,  sir." 

I  read  as  follows  : 

"  Oh  what  will  you  feel  when  you  see  this  writing,  and  know  it  comes 
from  my  wicked  hand  ?  But  try,  try — not  for  my  sake,  but  for  uncle's 
goodness,  try,  to  let  your  heart  soften  to  me,  only  for  a  little  little  time! 
Try,  pray  do,  to  relent  towards  a  miserable  girl,  and  write  down  on  a  bit 
of  paper  whether  he  is  well,  and  what  he  said  about  me  before  you  left 
off  ever  naming  me  among  yourselves — and  whether,  of  a  night,  when  it 
is  my  old  time  of  coming  home,  you  ever  see  him  look  as  if  he  thought 
of  one  he  used  to  love  so  dear.  Oh,  my  heart  is  breaking  when  I  think 
of  ii!  I  am  kneeling  down  to  you,  begging  and  praying  you  not  to  be 
so  hard  with  me  as  I  deserve — as  I  well,  well  know  I  deserve — but  to  be 
so  gentle  and  so  good  as  to  write  down  something  of  him,  and  to  send  it 
to  me.  You  need  not  call  me  Little,  you  need  not  call  me  by  the  name 
I  have  disgraced;  but  oh,  listen  to  my  agony,  and  have  mercy  on  me  so 
far  as  to  write  me  some  word  of  uncle,  never,  never  to  be  seen  in  this 
world  by  my  eyes  again ! 

"Dear,  if  your  heart  is  hard  towards  me — justly  hard,  I  know — but. 
Listen,  if  it  is  hard,  dear,  ask  him  I  have  wronged  the  worst — ^him  whose 
wife  I  was  to  have  been — before  you  quite  decide  against  my  poor  prayer! 
If  he  should  be  so  compassionate  as  to  say  that  you  might  write  some- 
thing for  me  to  read — I  think  he  would,  oh,  I  think  he  would,  if  you 
would  only  ask  him — for  he  always  was  so  brave  and  so  forgiving — tell 
him  then  (but  not  else,)  that  when  I  hear  the  wind  blowing  at  night, 
I  feel  as  if  it  was  passing  angrily  from  seeing  him  and  uncle,  and  was  go- 
ing up  to  God  against  me.  Tell  him  that  if  I  was  to  die  to-morrow 
(and  oh,  if  I  was  fit,  I  would  be  so  glad  to  die  !)  I  would  bless  him  and 
»ncle  with  my  last  words,  and  pray  for  his  happy  home  with  my  last 
breath  I" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  581 

Some  money  was  inclosed  in  this  letter  also.  Five  pounds. 
It  was  untouched,  like  the  previous  sum,  and  he  refolded  it 
in  the  same  way.  Detailed  instructions  were  added  relative 
to  the  address  of  a  reply,  which,  although  they  betrayed 
the  intervention  of  several  hands,  and  made  it  difficult  to 
arrive  at  any  very  probable  conclusion  in  reference  to  her 
place  of  concealment,made  it  at  least  not  unlikely  that  she  had 
written  from  that  spot  where  she  was  stated  to  have  been  seen. 

"  What  answer  was  sent  ?"  I  inquired  of  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  Missis  Gummidge,"  he  returned,  "  not  being  a  good 
scholar,  sir,  Ham  kindly  drawed  it  out  and  she  made  a 
copy  on  it.  They  told  her  I  was  gone  to  seek  her  and  what 
my  parting  words  was." 

"  Is  that  another  letter  in  your  hand  ?"  said  I. 

"  It's  money,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  unfolding  it  a  little 
way.  "  Ten  pound,  you  see.  And  wrote  inside,  '  From  a 
true  friend,'  like  the  first.  But  the  first  was  put  underneath 
the  door,  and  this  come  by  the  post,  day  afore  yesterday. 
I'm  a  going  to  seek  her  at  the  post-mark." 

He  showed  it  to  me.  It  was  a  town  on  the  Upper  Rhine. 
He  had  found  out,  at  Yarmouth,  some  foreign  dealers  who 
knew  that  country,  and  they  had  drawn  him  a  rude  map  on 
paper,  which  he  could  very  well  understand.  He  laid  it 
between  us  on  the  table;  and,  with  his  chin  resting  on  one 
hand,  tracked  his  course  upon  it  with  the  other. 

I  asked  him  how  Ham  was  ?     He  shook  his  head. 

"  He  works,"  he  said,  "  as  bold  as  a  man  can.  His  name's 
as  good,  in  all  that  part,  as  any  man's  is,  anywhere's  in  the 
wurold.  Anyone's  hand  is  ready  to  help  him,  you  under- 
stand, and  he  is  ready  to  help  them.  He's  never  been  heerd 
fur  to  complain.  But  my  sister's  belief  is  ('twixt  ourselves) 
as  it  has  cut  him  deep." 

"  Poor  fellow,  I  can  believe  it !" 

"  He  ain't  no  care,  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a 
solemn  whisper — "  keinder  no  care  no-how  for  his  life. 
When  a  man's  wanted  for  rough  service  in  rough  weather, 
he's  theer.  When  there's  hard  duty  to  be  done  with  danger 
in  it,  he  steps  forward  afore  all  his  mates.  And  yet  he's  as 
gentle  as  any  child.  There  ain't  a  child  in  Yarmouth  that 
doen't  know  him." 

H3  gathered  up  the  letters  thoughtfully,  smoothing  them 
with  his  hand;  put  them  into  their  little  bundle;  and  placed 
it  tenderly  in  his  breast  again.  The  face  was  gone  from  the 
door.  I  still  saw  the  snow  drifting  in;  but  nothing  else  was 
there. 


5^2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Well  !**  he  said,  looking  to  his  bag,  "having  seen  you  to- 
night, Mas'r  Davy  (and  that  does  me  good  !)  I  shall  away 
betimes  to-morrow  morning.  You  have  seen  what  I've  got 
heer;"  putting  his  hand  on  where  the  little  packet  lay;  "all 
that  troubles  me  is,  to  think  that  any  harm  might  come  to 
me,  afore  that  money  was  give  back.  If  I  was  to  die,  and  it  was 
lost,  or  stole,  or  elseways  made  away  with,  and  it  was  never 
knowed  by  him  but  what  I'd  took  it,  I  believe  the  t'other 
wureld  wouldn't  hold  me  !     I  believe  I  must  come  back  !" 

He  rose,  and  I  rose  too;  we  grasped  each  other  by  the 
hand  again,  before  going  out. 

"  I'd  go  ten  thousand  mile,"  he  said,  "  I'd  go  till  I  dropped 
dead,  to  lay  that  money  down  afore  him.  If  I  do  that,  and 
find  my  Em'ly,  I'm  content.  If  I  doen't  find  her,  maybe  she'll 
come  to  hear,  sometime,  as  her  loving  uncle  only  ended  his 
search  for  her  when  he  ended  his  life;  and  if  I  know  her, 
even  that  will  turn  her  home  at  last !" 

As  we  went  out  into  the  rigorous  night,  I  saw  the  lonely 
figure  flit  away  before  us.  I  turned  him  hastily  on  some  pre- 
tence, and  held  him  in  conversation  until  it  was  gone. 

He  spoke  of  a  traveller's  house  on  the  Dover  road,  where 
he  knew  he  could  find  a  clean,  plain  lodging  for  the  night. 
I  went  with  him  over  Westminster  Bridge,  and  parted 
from  him  on  the  Surrey  shore.  Everything  seemed,  to  my 
imagination,  to  be  hushed  in  reverence  for  him,  as  he  re- 
sumed his  solitary  journey  through  the  snow. 

I  returned  to  the  inn  yard,  and  impressed  by  my  remem- 
brance of  the  face,  looked  awfully  around  for  it.  It  was  not 
there.  The  snowjiad  covered  our  late  footprints;  my  new- 
track  was  the  only  one  to  be  seen;  and  even  that  began  to  die 
away  (it  snowed  so  fast)  as  I  looked  back  over  my  shoulder. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  5^3 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

Dora's  aunts. 

At  last  an  answer  came  from  the  two  old  ladies.  They 
presented  their  compliments  to  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  in- 
formed him  that  they  had  given  his  letter  their  best  con- 
sideration, "  with  a  view  to  the  happiness  of  both  parties  " — 
which  I  thought  rather  an  alarming  expression,  not  only 
because  of  the  use  they  had  made  of  it  in  relation  to  the 
family  difference  beforementioned,  but  because  I  had  (and 
have  all  my  life)  observed  that  conventional  phrases  are  a 
sort  of  fireworks,  easily  let  off,  and  liable  to  take  a  great 
variety  of  shapes  and  colors  not  at  all  suggested  by  their 
original  form.  The  Misses  Spenlow  added  that  they  begged 
to  forbear  expressing,  "  through  the  medium  of  correspond- 
ence," an  opinion  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Copperfield's  com- 
munication; but  that  if  Mr.  Copperfield  would  do  them  the 
favor  to  call,  upon  a  certain  day  (accompanied,  if  he 
thought  proper,  by  a  confidential  friend),  they  would  be 
happy  to  hold  some  conversation  on  the  subject. 

To  this  favor,  Mr.  Copperfield  immediately  replied,  with 
his  respectful  compliments,  that  he  would  have  the  honor  of 
waiting  on  the  Misses  Spenlow,  at  the  time  appointed;  ac- 
companied, in  accordance  with  their  kind  permission,  by 
his  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  of  the  Inner  Temple.  Hav- 
ing despatched  which  missive,  Mr,  Copperfield  fell  into  a 
condition  of  strong  nervous  agitation;  and  so  remained  un- 
til the  day  arrived. 

It  was  a  great  augmentation  of  my  uneasiness  to  be  be- 
reaved, at  this  eventful  crisis,  of  the  inestimable  services  of 
Miss  Mills.  But  Mr.  Mills,  who  was  always  doing  some- 
thing or  other  to  annoy  me — or  I  felt  as  if  he  were,  which 
was  the  same  thing — had  brought  his  conduct  to  a  climax, 
by  taking  it  into  his  head  that  he  would  go  to  India.  Why 
should  he  go  to  India,  except  to  harass  me  ?  To  be  sure  he 
had  nothing  to  do  with  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and 
had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  that  part;  being  entirely  in  the 
India  trade,  whatever  that  was  (I  had  floating  dreams  my- 
self concerning  golden  shawls  and  elephants'  teeth);  having 
been  at  Calcutta  in  his  youth;  and  designing  now  to  go  out 
there  again,  in  the  capacity  of  resident  partner.  But  this  was 


584  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

nothing  to  me.  However,  it  v/as  so  much  to  him  that  for 
India  he  was  bound,  and  Julia  with  him  ;  and  Julia  went 
into  the  country  to  take  leave  of  her  relations;  and  the 
house  was  put  into  a  perfect  suit  of  bills,  announcing  that 
it  was  to  be  let  or  sold,  and  that  the  furniture  (Mangle  and 
all)  was  to  be  taken  at  a  valuation.  So,  here  was  another 
earthquake  of  which  I  became  the  sport,  before  I  had  re- 
coveied  from  the  shock  of  its  predecessor  ! 

I  was  in  several  minds  how  to  dress  myself  on  the  im- 
portant day;  being  divided  between  my  desire  to  appear  to 
advantage,  and  my  apprehensions  of  putting  on  anything 
that  might  impair  my  severely  practical  character  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Misses  Spenlow.  I  endeavored  to  hit  a  happy 
medium  between  these  two  extremes;  my  aunt  approved  the 
result;  and  Mr.  Dick  threw  one  of  his  shoes  after  Traddles 
and  me,  for  luck,  as  we  went  down  stairs. 

Excellent  fellow  as  I  knew  Traddles  to  be,  and  warmly 
attached  to  him  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  wishing,  on  that 
delicate  occasion,  that  he  had  never  contracted  the  habit 
of  brushing  his  hair  so  very  upright.  It  gave  him  a  sur- 
prised look — not  to  say  a  hearth-broomy  kind  of  expres- 
sion— which,my  apprehensions  whispered,might  be  fatal  to  us. 

I  took  the  liberty  of  mentioning  it  to  Traddles,  as  we  were 
walking  to  Putney;  and  saying  that  if  he  would  smooth  it 
down  a  little — 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  lifting  off  his  hat, 
and  rubbing  his  hair  all  kinds  of  ways,  "  nothing  would  give 
me  greater  pleasure.     But  it  won't." 

"  Won't  be  smoothed  down  ?"  said  I. 

"  No,"  said  Traddles.  "  Nothing  will  induce  it.  If  I  was 
to  carry  a  half-hundredweight  upon  it,  all  the  way  to  Put- 
ney, it  would  be  up  again  the  moment  the  weight  was  taken 
off.  You  have  no  idea  what  obstinate  hair  mine  is.  Copper- 
field.     I  am  quite  a  fretful  porcupine." 

I  was  a  little  disappointed,  I  must  confess,  but  thoroughly 
charmed  by  his  good-nature  too.  I  told  him  how  I  esteemed 
his  good-nature;  and  said  that  his  hair  must  have  taken  all 
the  obstinacy  out  of  his  character,  for  he  had  none. 

"  Oh  !"  returned  Traddles,  laughing,  "  I  assure  you,  it's 
quite  an  old  story,  my  unfortunate  hair.  My  uncle's  wife 
couldn't  bear  it.  She  said  it  exasperated  her.  It  stood 
very  much  in  my  way,  too,  when  I  first  fell  in  love  with 
Sophy.     Very  much  I" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  585 

"  Did  she  object  to  it  ?'* 

*'  She  didn't,"  rejoined  Traddles;  "but  her  eldest  sister— 
the  one  that's  the  Beauty — quite  made  game  of  it,  I  under- 
stand.    In  fact  all  the  sisters  laugh  at  it." 

"Agreeable  !"  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Traddles  with  perfect  innocence,  "  it's  a 
joke  for  us.  They  pretend  that  Sophy  has  a  lock  of  it  in 
her  desk,  and  is  obliged  to  shut  it  in  a  clasped  book,  to 
keep  it  down.     We  laugh  about  it." 

"  By-the-by,  my  dear  Traddles,"  said  I,  "  your  experience 
may  suggest  something  to  me.  When  you  became  engaged 
to  the  young  lady  whom  you  have  just  mentioned,  did  you 
make  a  regular  proposal  to  her  family  ?  Was  there  anything 
like — what  we  are  going  through  to-day,  for  instance  ?"  I 
added,  nervously. 

"Why,"  replied  Traddles,  on  whose  attentive  face  a 
thoughtful  shade  had  stolen,  **  it  was  rather  a  painful  trans- 
action, Copperfield,  in  my  case.  You  see,  Sophy  being  of 
so  much  use  in  the  family,  none  of  them  could  endure  the 
thought  of  her  ever  being  married.  Indeed,  they  had  quite 
settled  among  themselves  that  she  never  was  to  be  married, 
and  they  called  her  the  old  maid.  Accordingly,  when  I  men- 
tioned it,  with  the  greatest  precaution,  to  Mrs.  Crewler — " 

"  The  mamma  ?"  said  I. 

"  The  mamma,"  said  Traddles — "  Reverend  Horace  Crew- 
ler— when  I  mentioned  it  with  every  possible  precaution  to 
Mrs.  Crewler,  the  effect  upon  her  was  such  that  she  gave  a 
scream  and  became  insensible.  I  couldn't  approach  the 
subject  again,  for  months." 

"  You  did  it  at  last  ?"  said  I. 

"Well,  the  Reverend  Horace  did,"  said  Traddles.  "He 
is  an  excellent  man,  most  exemplary  in  every  way;  and  he 
pointed  out  to  her  that  she  ought,  as  a  Christian,  to  recon- 
cile herself  to  the  sacrifice  (especially  as  it  was  so  uncertain), 
and  to  bear  no  uncharitable  feeling  towards  me.  As  to 
myself,  Copperfield,  I  give  you  my  word,  I  felt  a  perfect 
bird  of  prey  towards  the  family." 

"  The  sisters  took  your  part,  I  hope,  Traddles  ?" 

"Why,  I  can't  say  they  did,"  he  returned.  "When  we 
had  comparatively  reconciled  Mrs.  Crewler  to  it,  we  had  to 
break  \t  to  Sarah.  You  recollect  my  mentioning  Sarah,  as 
the  one  that  has  something  the  matter  with  her  spine  I" 

''  Perfectly !" 


586  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  She  clenched  both  her  hands,"  said  Traddles,  looking 
at  me  in  dismay;  "  shut  her  eyes;  turned  lead-color;  became 
perfectly  stiff;  and  took  nothing  for  two  days,  but  toast  and 
water,  administered  with  a  teaspoon.  " 

"  What  a  very  unpleasant  girl,  Traddles  !"  I  remarked. 

*'  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Copperfield!"  said  Traddles, 
"  she  is  a  very  charming  girl,  but  she  has  a  great  deal  of  feel- 
ing. In  fact,  they  all  have.  Sophy  told  me  afterwards,  that 
the  self-reproach  she  underwent  while  she  was  in  attend- 
ance upon  Sarah,  no  words  could  describe.  I  know  it  must 
have  been  severe,  by  my  own  feelings,  Copperfield;  which 
were  like  a  criminal's.  After  Sarah  was  restored,  we  still 
had  to  break  it  to  the  other  eight;  and  it  produced  various 
effects  upon  them  of  a  most  pathetic  nature.  The  two  lit- 
tle ones,  whom  Sophy  educates,  have  only  just  left  off  de- 
testing me." 

"  At  any  rate,  they  are  all  reconciled  to  it  now,  I  hope  ?" 
said  I. 

"  Ye — yes,  I  should  say  they  were,  on  the  whole,  resigned 
to  it,"  said  Traddles,  doubtfully.  "  The  fact  is,  we  avoid 
mentioning  the  subject;  and  my  unsettled  prospects  and  in- 
different circumstances  are  a  great  consolation  to  them. 
There  will  be  a  deplorable  scene,  whenever  we  are  married. 
It  will  be  much  more  like  a  funeral,  than  a  wedding.  And 
they'll  all  hate  me  for  taking  her  away!" 

His  honest  face,  as  he  looked  at  me  with  a  serio-comic 
shake  of  his  head,  impresses  me  more  in  the  remembrance 
than  it  did  in  the  reality,  for  I  was  by  this  time  in  a  state  of 
such  excessive  trepidation  and  wandering  of  mind,  as  to  be 
quite  unable  to  fix  my  attention  on  anything-  On  our  ap- 
proaching the  house  where  the  Misses  Spenlow  lived,  I  was 
at  such  a  discount  in  respect  of  my  personal  looks  and 
presence  of  mirid,  that  Traddles  proposed  a  gentle  stimu- 
lant in  the  form  of  a  glass  of  ale.  This  having  been  admin- 
istered at  a  neighboring  public-house,  he  conducted  me, 
with  tottering  steps,  to  the  Misses  Spenlow's  door. 

I  had  a  vague  sensation  of  being,  as  it  were,  on  view, 
when  the  maid  opened  it;  and  of  wavering,  somehow,  across 
a  hall  with  a  weather-glass  in  it,  into  a  quiet  little  drawing- 
room  on  the  ground-floor,  commanding  a  neat  garden.  Also 
of  sitting  down  here,  on  a  sofa,  and  seeing  Traddles's  hair 
start  up,  now  his  hat  was  removed,  like  one  of  those  obtru- 
sive little  figures  made  of  springs,  that  fly  out  of  fictitious 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  587 

snuff-boxes  when  the  lid  is  taken  off.  Also  of  hearing  an 
old-fashioned  clock  ticking  away  on  the  chimney-piece,  and 
trying  to  make  it  keep  time  to  the  jerking  of  my  heart,  which 
it  wouldn't.  Also  of  looking  round  the  room  for  any  sign 
of  Dora,  and  seeing  none.  Also  of  thinking  that  Jip  once 
barked  in  the  distance,  and  was  instantly  choked  by  some- 
body. Ultimately  I  found  myself  backing  Traddles  into  the 
fire-place,  and  bowing  in  great  confusion  to  two  dry  little  eld- 
erly ladies,  dressed  in  black,  and  each  looking  wonderfully 
like  a  preparation  in  chip  or  tan   of  the  late  Mr.  Spenlow. 

"  Pray,"  said  one  of  the  two  little  ladies,  "  be  seated." 

When  I  had  done  tumbling  over  Traddles,  and  had  sat 
upon  something  which  was  not  a  cat — my  first  seat  was — I 
so  far  recovered  my  sight,  as  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Spenlow 
had  evidently  been  the  youngest  of  the  family;  that  there 
was  a  disparity  of  six  or  eight  years  between  the  two  sisters; 
and  that  the  younger  appeared  to  be  the  manager  of  the 
conference,  inasmuch  as  she  had  my  letter  in  her  hand — so 
familiar  as  it  looked  to  me,  and  yet  so  odd!— and  was  re- 
ferring to  it  through  an  eye-glass.  They  were  dressed  alike, 
but  this  sister  wore  her  dress  with  a  more  youthful  air  than 
the  other;  and  perhaps  had  a  trifle  more  frill,  or  tucker,  or 
brooch,  or  bracelet,  or  some  little  thing  of  that  kind,  which 
made  her  look  more  lively.  They  were  both  upright  in 
their  carriage,  formal,  precise,  composed,  and  quiet.  The 
sister  who  had  not  my  letter,  had  her  arms  crossed  on  her 
breast,  and  resting  on  each  other,  like  an  Idol. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  believe,"  said  the  sister  who  had  got 
my  letter,  addressing  herself  to  Traddles. 

This  was  a  frightful  beginning.  Traddles  had  to  indicate 
that  I  was  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  I  had  to  lay  claim  to  myself, 
and  they  had  to  divest  themselves  of  a  preconceived  opinion 
that  Traddles  was  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  altogether  we  were 
in  a  nice  condition.  To  improve  it,  we  all  distinctly  heard 
Jip  give  two  short  barks,  and  receive  another  choke. 

"Mr.  Copperfield!"  said  the  sister  with  the  letter. 

I  did  something — bowed,  I  suppose — and  was  all  atten- 
tion, when  the  other  sister  struck  in. 

"My  sister  Lavinia,"  said  she,  " being  most  conversant 
with  matters  of  this  nature,  will  state  what  we  consider 
most  calculated  to  promote  the  happiness  of  both  parties." 

I  discovered  afterwards  that  Miss  Lavinia  was  an  authority 
in  affairs  of  the  heart,  by  reason  of  there  having  anciently  ex- 


588  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

• 

isted  a  certain  Mr.  Pidger,  who  played  short  whist,  and  was 
supposed  to  have  been  enamored  of  her.  My  private  opinion 
is,  that  this  was  entirely  a  gratuitous  assumption,  and  that 
Pidger  was  altogether  innocent  of  any  such  sentiments — to 
which  he  had  never  given  any  sort  of  expression  that  I  could 
ever  hear  of.  Both  Miss  Lavinia  and  Miss  Clarissa  had  a 
superstition,  however,  that  he  would  have  declared  his  pas- 
sion, if  he  had  not  been  cut  short  in  his  youth  ( at  about 
sixty)  by  over-drinking  his  constitution,  and  overdoing  an 
attempt  to  set  it  right  again  by  swilling  Bath  water.  They 
had  a  lurking  suspicion  even,  that  he  died  of  secret  love; 
though  1  must  say  there  was  a  picture  of  him  in  the  house 
with  a  damask  nose,  which  concealment  did  not  appear  to 
have  ever  preyed  upon. 

"  We  will  not,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  "  enter  on  the  past 
history  of  this  matter.  Our  poor  brother  Francis's  death 
has  canceled  that." 

"  We  had  not,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "  been  in  the  habit  of 
frequent  association  with  our  brother  Francis;  but  there 
was  no  decided  division  or  disunion  between  us.  Francis 
took  his  road;  we  took  ours.  We  considered  it  conducive 
to  the  happiness  of  all  parties  that  it  should  be  so.  And  it 
was  so." 

Each  of  the  sisters  leaned  a  little  forward  to  speak,  shook 
her  head  after  speaking,  and  became  upright  again  when 
silent.  Miss  Clarissa  never  moved  her  arms.  She  sometimes 
played  tunes  upon  them  with  her  fingers — minuets  and 
marches  I  should  think — but  never  moved  them. 

"Our  niece's  position,  or  supposed  position,  is  much 
changed  by  our  brother  Francis's  death,"  said  Miss  Lavinia  ; 
**  and  therefore  we  consider  our  brother's  opinions  as  re- 
garded her  position  as  being  changed  too.  We  have  no  rea- 
son to  doubt,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  you  are  a  young  gentle- 
man possessed  of  good  qualities  and  honorable  character; 
or  that  you  have  an  affection — or  are  fully  persuaded  that 
you  have  an  affection — for  our  niece." 

I  replied,  as  I  usually  did  whenever  I  had  a  chance,  that 
nobody  had  ever  loved  anybody  else  as  I  loved  Dora. 
Traddles  came  to  my  assistance  with  a  confirmatory  murmur. 

Miss  Lavinia  was  going  on  to  make  some  rejoinder,  when 
Miss  Clarissa,  who  appeared  to  be  incessantly  beset  by  a  de- 
sire to  refer  tc  her  brother  Francis,  struck  in  again: 

"  If  Dora's  mamma,"  she  said,  "  when  she  married  our 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  589 

brother  Francis,  had  at  once  said  that  there  was  not  room 
for  the  family  at  the  dinner-table,  it  would  have  been  better 
for  the  happiness  of  all  parties." 

"  Sister  Clarissa,"  said  Miss  Lavinia.  "  Perhaps  we 
needn't  mind  that  now." 

"  Sister  Lavinia,"  said  Miss  (Clarissa,  "  it  belongs  to  the 
subject.  With  your  branch  of  the  subject,  on  which  alone 
you  are  competent  to  speak,  I  should  not  think  of  inter- 
fering. On  this  branch  of  the  subject,  I  have  a  voice  and 
an  opinion.  It  would  have  been  better  for  the  happiness  of 
all  parties,  if  Dora's  mamma,  when  she  married  our  brother 
Francis,  had  mentioned  plainly  what  her  intentions  were. 
We  should  then  have  known  what  we  had  to  expect.  We 
should  have  said,  'pray  do  not  invite  us  at  any  time;'  and 
all  possibility  of  misunderstanding  would  have  been  avoided." 

When  Miss  Clarissa  had  shaken  her  head,  Miss  Lavinia 
resumed  :  again  referring  to  my  letter  through  her  eye- 
glass. They  both  had  little  bright  round  twinkling  eyes,  by 
the  way,  which  were  like  birds'  eyes.  They  were  not 
unlike  birds,  altogether,  having  a  sharp,  brisk,  sudden  manner 
and  a  little  short,  spruce  way  of  adjusting  themselves,  like 
canaries. 

Miss  Lavinia,  as  I  have  said,  resumed: 

"  You  ask  permission  of  my  sister  Clarissa  and  myself, 
Mr.  Copperfield,  to  visit  here,  as  the  accepted  suitor  of  our 
niece." 

"  If  our  brother  Francis,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  breaking  out 
again,  if  I  may  call  anything  so  calm  a  breaking  out, 
"  wished  to  surround  himself  with  an  atmosphere  of  Doctors' 
Commons,  and  of  Doctors'  Commons  only,  what  right  or 
desire  had  we  to  object  ?  None,  I  am  sure.  We  have  ever 
been  far  from  wishing  to  obtrude  ourselves  on  any  one.  But 
why  not  say  so  ?  Let  our  brother  Francis  and  his  wife  have 
their  society.  Let  my  sister  Lavinia  and  myself  have  our 
society.     We  can  find  it  for  ourselves,  I  hope." 

As  this  appeared  to  be  addressed  to  Traddles  and  me, 
both  Traddles  and  I  made  some  sort  of  reply.  Traddles 
was  inaudible.  I  think  I  observed,  myself,  that  it  was  highly 
creditable  to  all  concerned.  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what 
I  meant. 

"Sister  Lavinia,"  said  Miss  Clarissa, "  having  now  relieved 
my  mind,  you  can  go  on,  my  dear." 

Miss  Lavinia  proceeded  : 


59©  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,  my  sister  Clarissa  and  1  have  been 
very  careful  indeed  in  considering  this  letter;  and  we  have 
not  considered  it  without  finally  showing  it  to  our  niece, 
and  discussing  it  with  our  niece.  We  have  no  doubt  that 
you  think  you  like  her  very  much." 

"  Think,  ma'am,"  I  rapturously  began,  "oh  ! — " 

But  Miss  Clarissa  giving  me  a  look  (just  like  a  sharp 
canary)  as  requesting  that  I  would  not  interrupt  the  oracle, 
I  begged  pardon. 

"  Affection,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  glancing  at  her  sister  for 
corroboration,  which  she  gave  in  the  form  of  a  little  nod  to 
every  clause,  "  mature  affection,  homage,  devotion,  does  not 
easily  express  itself.  Its  voice  is  low.  It  is  modest  and  re- 
tiring, it  lies  in  ambush,  waits  and  waits.  Such  is  the  ma- 
ture fruit.  Sometimes  a  life  glides  away  and  finds  it  still 
ripening  in  the  shade." 

Of  course  I  did  not  understand  then  that  this  was  an  al- 
lusion to  her  supposed  experience  of  the  stricken  Pidger; 
but  I  saw,  from  the  gravity  with  which  Miss  Clarissa  nodded 
her  head,  that  great  weight  was  attached  to  these  words. 

"  The  light — for  I  call  them  in  comparison  with  such 
sentiments,  the  light — inclinations  of  very  young  people," 
pursued  Miss  Lavinia,  "  are  dust,  compared  to  rocks.  It  is 
owing  to  the  difficulty  of  knowing  whether  they  are  likely 
to  endure  or  have  any  real  foundation,  that  my  sister 
Clarissa  and  myself  have  been  very  undecided  how  to  act, 
Mr.  Copperfield,  and  Mr. " 

"  Traddles,"  said  my  friend,  finding  himself  looked  at. 

"  I  beg  pardon.  Of  the  Inner  Temple,  I  believe?"  said 
Miss  Clarissa,  again  glancing  at  my  letter. 

Traddles  said,  "  Exactly  so,"  and  became  pretty  red  in 
the  face. 

Now,  although  I  had  not  received  any  express  encourage- 
ment as  yet,  I  fancied  that  I  saw  in  the  two  little  sisters, 
and  particularly  in  Miss  Lavinia,  an  intensified  enjoyment 
of  this  new  and  fruitful  subject  of  domestic  interest,  a  set- 
tling down  to  make  the  most  of  it,  a  disposition  to  pet  it,  in 
which  there  was  a  good  bright  ray  of  hope. 

I  thought  I  perceived  that  Miss  Lavinia  would  have  un- 
common satisfaction  in  superintending  two  young  lovers, 
like  Dora  and  me;  and  that  Miss  Clarissa  would  have  hardly 
less  satisfaction  in  seeing  her  superintend  us,  and  in  chim- 
ing in  with  her  own  particular  department  of  the  subject 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  591 

whenever  that  impulse  was  strong  upon  her.  This  gave  me 
courage  to  protest  most  vehemently  that  I  loved  Dora  bet- 
ter than  I  could  tell,  or  any  one  believe;  that  all  my  friends 
knew  how  I  loved  her;  that  my  aunt,  Agnes,  Traddles, 
every  one  who  knew  me,  knew  how  I  loved  her,  and  how 
earnest  my  love  had  made  me.  For  the  truth  of  this,  I  ap- 
pealed to  Traddles.  And  Traddles,  firing  up  as  if  he  were 
plunging  into  a  Parliamentary  Debate,  really  did  come  out 
nobly:  confirming  me  in  good  round  terms,  and  in  a  plain, 
sensible,  practical  manner,  that  evidently  made  a  favorable 
impression. 

''  I  speak,  if  I  may  presume  to  say  so,  as  one  who  has 
some  little  experience  of  such  things,"  said  Traddles,  "  be- 
ing myself  engaged  to  a  young  lady — one  of  ten,  down  in 
Devonshire — and  seeing  no  probability,  at  present,  of  our 
engagement  coming  to  a  termination." 

"  You  may  be  able  to  confirm  what  I  have  said,  Mr.  Trad- 
dles," observed  Miss  Lavinia,  evidently  taking  a  new  in- 
terest in  him,  "  of  the  affection  that  is  modest  and  retiring; 
that  waits  and  waits?" 

"  Entirely,  ma'am,"  said  Traddles. 

Miss  Clarissa  looked  at  Miss  Lavinia,  and  shook  her  head 
gravely.  Miss  Lavinia  looked  consciously  at  Miss  Clarissa, 
and  heaved  a  little  sigh. 

"  Sister  Lavinia,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "take  my  smelling- 
bottle." 

Miss  Lavinia  revived  herself  with  a  few  whiffs  of  aromatic 
vinegar — Traddles  and  I  looking  on  with  great  solicitude  the 
while;  and  then  went  on  to  say,  rather  faintly: 

"  My  sister  and  myself  have  been  in  great  doubt,  Mr. 
Traddles,  what  course  we  ought  to  take  in  reference  to  the 
likings,  or  imaginary  likings,  of  such  very  young  people  as 
your  friend  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  our  niece." 

"  Our  brother  Francis's  child,"  remarked  Miss  Clarissa. 
"  If  our  brother  Francis's  wife  had  found  it  convenient  in 
her  life-time  (though  she  had  an  unquestionable  right  to  act 
as  she  thought  best)  to  invite  the  family  to  her  dinner-table, 
we  might  have  known  our  brother  Francis's  child  better  at 
the  present  moment.     Sister  Lavinia,  proceed." 

Miss  Lavinia  turned  my  letter,  so  as  to  bring  the  super- 
scription towards  herself,  and  referred  through  her  eye-glass 
to  some  orderly-looking  notes  she  had  made  on  that  part  of  it. 

"  It  seems  to  us,"   said  she,  "  prudent,  Mr.  Traddles,  to 


592  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

bring  these  feelings  to  the  test  of  our  own  observation.  At 
present  we  know  nothing  of  them,  and  are  not  in  a  situation 
to  judge  how  much  reality  there  may  be  in  them.  There- 
fore we  are  inclined  so  far  to  accede  to  Mr.  Copperfield's 
proposal,  as  to  admit  his  visits  here." 

**  I  shall  never,  dear  ladies,"  I  exclaimed,  relieved  of  an 
immense  load  of  apprehension,  "  forget  your  kindness!" 

"  But,"  pursued  Miss  Lavinia, — "  but,  we  would  prefer  to 
regard  those  visits,  Mr.  Traddles,  as  made,  at  present,  to  us. 
We  must  guard  ourselves  from  recognizing  any  positive  en- 
gagement between  Mr.  Copperfield  and  our  niece,  until  we 
have  had  an  opportunity — " 

"  Until  you  have  had  an  opportunity,  sister  Lavinia,"  said 
Miss  Clarissa. 

"Be  it  so,"  assented  Miss  Lavinia,  with  a  sigh, — "until  I 
have  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  them." 

"Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  turning  to  me,  "you  feel, 
I  am  sure,  that  nothing  could  be  more  reasonable  or  con- 
siderate." 

"  Nothing  !"  cried  I.     "  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  it." 

"  In  this  position  of  affairs,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  again  re- 
ferring to  her  notes,  "  and  admitting  his  visits  on  this  un- 
derstanding only,  we  must  require  from  Mr.  Copperfield  a 
distinct  assurance,  on  his  word  of  honor,  that  no  communi- 
cation of  any  kind  shall  take  place  between  him  and  our 
niece  without  our  knowledge.  That  no  project  whatever 
shall  be  entertained  with  regard  to  our  niece,  without  being 
first  submitted  to  us — " 

"  To  you,  sister  Lavinia,"  Miss  Clarissa  interposed. 

"Be  it  so,  Clarissa!"  assented  Miss  Lavinia  resignedly — 
"  to  me — and  receiving  our  concurrence.  We  must  make 
this  a  most  express  and  serious  stipulation,  not  to  be  broken 
on  any  account.  We  wished  Mr.  Copperfield  to  be  accom-' 
panied  by  some  confidential  friend  to-day,"  with  an  incli- 
nation of  her  head  towards  Traddles,  who  bowed,  "  in  order 
that  there  might  be  no  doubt  or  misconception  on  this  sub- 
ject. If  Mr.  Copperfield,  or  if  you,  Mr.  Traddles,  feel  the 
least  scruple,  in  giving  this  promise,  I  beg  you  to  take  time 
to  consider  it." 

I  exclaimed,  in  a  state  of  high  ecstatic  fervor,  that  not  a 
moment's  consideration  could  be  necessary.  I  bound  my- 
self by  the  required  promise,  in  a  most  impassioned  manner; 
called  upon  Traddles  to  witness  it;  and  denounced  myself 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  593 

as  the  most  atrocious  of  characters  if  I  ever  swerved  from  it 
in  the  least  degree. 

"Stay  !"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  holding  up  her  hand;  "we 
resolved,  before  we  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  you  two 
gentlemen,  to  leave  you  alone  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  to 
consider  this  point.     You  will  allow  us  to  retire." 

It  was  in  vain  for  me  to  say  that  no  consideration  was 
necessary.  They  persisted  in  withdrawing  for  the  specified 
time.  Accordingly,  these  little  birds  hopped  out  with  great 
dignity;  leaving  me  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  Trad- 
dies,  and  to  feel  as  if  I  were  translated  to  regions  of  exquisite 
happiness.  Exactly  at  the  expiration  of  the  quarter  of  an 
hour  they  reappeared  with  no  less  dignity  than  they  had 
disappeared.  They  had  gone  rustling  away  as  if  their  little 
dresses  were  made  of  autumn  leaves:  and  they  came  rustling 
back,  in  like  manner. 

I  then  bound  myself  once  more  to  the  prescribed  conditions. 

"  Sister  Clarissa,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  "  the  rest  is  with  you." 

Miss  Clarissa,  unfolding  her  arms  for  the  first  time,  took 
the  notes  and  glanced  at  them. 

"We  shall  be  happy,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "to  see  Mr. 
Copperfield  to  dinner,  every  Sunday,  if  it  should  suit  his 
convenience.     Our  hour  is  three." 

I  bowed. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  week,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "  we  shall 
be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Copperfield  to  tea.  Our  hour  is  half- 
past  six." 

I  bowed  again. 

"  Twice  in  the  week,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "  but,  as  a  rule, 
not  oftener." 

I  bowed  again. 

"  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Miss  Clarissa,  "  mentioned  in  Mr. 
Copperfield's  letter,  will  perhaps  call  upon  us.  When  visit- 
ing is  better  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties,  we  are  glad  to 
receive  visits,  and  return  them.  When  it  is  better  for  the 
happiness  of  all  parties  that  no  visiting  should  take  place, 
(as  in  the  case  of  our  brother  Francis,  and  his  establishment) 
that  is  quite  different." 

I  intimated  that  my  aunt  would  be  proud  and  delighted 
to  make  their  acquaintance;  though  I  must  say  I  was  not 
quite  sure  of  their  getting  on  very  satisfactorily  together. 
The  conditions  being  now  closed,  I  expressed  my  acknowledg- 
ments in  the  warmest  manner;  and,  taking  the  hand,  first  cf 


594  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Miss  Clarissa,  and  then  of  Miss  Lavinia,  pressed  it,  in  each 
case,  to  my  lips. 

.Miss  Lavinia  then  arose,  and  begging  Mr.  Traddles  to 
excuse  us  for  a  minute,  requested  me  to  follow  her.  I 
obeyed,  all  in  a  tremble,  and  was  conducted  into  another 
room.  There,  I  found  my  blessed  darling  stopping  her 
ears  behind  the  door, with  her  dear  little  face  against  the  wall; 
and  Jip  in  the  plate-warmer  with  his  head  tied  up  in  a  towel. 

Oh  !  How  beautiful  she  was  in  her  black  frock,  and  how 
she  sobbed  and  cried  at  first,  and  wouldn't  come  out  from 
behind  the  door  !  How  fond  we  were  of  one  another,  when 
she  did  come  out  at  last;  and  what  a  state  of  bliss  I  was  in, 
when  we  took  Jip  out  of  the  plate- warmer,  and  restored  him 
to  the  light,  sneezing  very  much,  and  we  were  all  three  re- 
united ! 

"My  dearest  Dora!        Now,  indeed,  my  own  for  ever!" 

"  Oh  don't!"  pleaded  Dora.     "  Please!" 

"Are  you  not  my  own  for  ever,  Dora?" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  I  am!"  cried  Dora,  "but  I  am  so 
frightened  !" 

"  Frightened,  my  own  ?" 

"Oh  yes!  I  don't  like  him,"  said  Dora.  "  Why  don't  he  go?" 

"  Who,  my  lif  e  .>" 

"  Your  friend,"  said  Dora.  "  It  isn't  any  business  of  his. 
What  a  stupid  he  must  be  !" 

"My  love!"  (There  never  was  anything  so  coaxing  as 
her  childish  ways.)     "  He  is  the  best  creature!" 

"Oh,  but  we  don't  want  any  best  creatures!"  pouted  Dora. 

"  My  dear,"  I  argued,  "  you  will  soon  know  him  well,  and 
like  him  of  all  things.  And  here  is  my  aunt  coming  soon  ; 
and  you'll  like  her  of  all  things  too,  when  you  know  her." 

"  No,  please  don't  bring  her!"  said  Dora,  giving  me  a  hor- 
rified little  kiss,  and  folding  her  hands.  "  Don't.  I  know 
she's  a  naughty,  mischief-making  old  thing!  Don't  let  her 
come  here,  Doady!"  which  was  a  corruption  of  David. 

Remonstrance  was  of  no  use,  then;  so  I  laughed,  and  ad- 
mired, and  was  very  much  in  love,  and  very  happy  ;  and  she 
showed  me  Jip's  new  trick  of  standing  on  his  hind  legs  in 
a  corner — which  he  did  for  about  the  space  of  a  flash  of 
lightning,  and  then  fell  down — and  I  don't  know  how  long 
I  should  have  stayed  there,  oblivious  of  Traddles,  if  Miss 
Lavinia  had  not  come  in  to  take  me  away.  Miss  Lavinia 
was  very  fond  of  Dora  (she  told  me  Dora  was  exactly  like 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


595 


what  she  had  been  herself  at  her  age —  she  must  have 
altered  a  good  deal),  and  she  treated  Dorajustasif  she  had 
been  a  toy.  I  wanted  to  persuade  Dora  to  come  and  see 
Traddles,  but  on  my  proposing  it  she  ran  off  to  her  room 
and  locked  herself  in;  so  I  went  to  Traddles  without  Jier, 
and  walked  away  with  him  on  air. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory,"  said  Traddles; 
*'  and  they  are  very  agreeable  old  ladies,  I  am  sure. 
I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  you  were  to  be  married 
years  before  me,  Copperfield." 

"Does  your  Sophy  play  on  any  instrument,  Traddles?" 
I  enquired,  in  the  pride  of  my  heart. 

"  She  knows  enough  of  the  piano  to  teach  it  to  her  little 
sisters,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Does  she  sing  at  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  she  sings  ballads,  sometimes,  to  freshen  up  the 
others  a  little  when  they're  out  of  spirits,"  said  Traddles. 
"  Nothing  scientific." 

"  She  doesn't  sing  to  the  guitar  ?  "   said  I. 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  "  said  Traddles. 

"  Paint  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Traddles. 

I  promised  Traddles  that  he  should  hear  Dora  sing,  and 
see  some  of  her  flower- painting.  He  said  he  should  like  it 
very  much,  and  we  went  home  arm  in  arm  in  great  good 
humor  and  delight.  I  encouraged  him  to  talk  about  Sophy, 
on  the  way  ;  which  he  did  with  a  loving  reliance  on  her  that 
I  very  much  admired.  I  compared  her  in  my  mind  with 
Dora,  with  considerable  inward  satisfaction  ;  but  I  candidly 
admitted  to  myself  that  she  seemed  to  be  an  excellent  kind 
of  girl  for  Traddles,  too. 

Of  course  my  aunt  was  immediately  made  acquainted 
with  the  successful  issue  of  the  conference,  and  with  all 
that  had  been  said  and  done  in  the  course  of  it.  She  was 
happy  to  see  me  so  happy,  and  promised  to  call  on  Dora's 
aunts  without  loss  of  time.  But  she  took  such  a  long  walk 
up  and  down  our  rooms  that  night,  while  I  was  writing  to 
Agnes,  that  I  began  to  think  she  meant  to  walk  till  morning. 

My  letter  to  Agnes  was  a  fervent  and  grateful  one,  nar- 
rating all  the  good  effects  that  had  resulted  from  my  follow- 
ing her  advice.  She  wrote,  by  return  of  post,  to  me.  Her 
letter  was  hopeful,  earnest  and  cheerful.  She  was  always 
cheerful  from  that  time. 


596  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

I  had  my  hands  more  full  than  ever,  now.  My  daily 
journeys  to  Highgate  considered,  Putney  was  a  long  way 
off ;  and  I  naturally  wanted  to  go  there  as  often  as  I  could. 
The  proposed  tea-drinking  being  quite  impracticable,  I 
compounded  with  Miss  Lavinia  for  permission  to  visit  every 
Saturday  afternoon,  without  detriment  to  my  privileged 
Sundays.  So,  the  close  of  every  week  was  a  delicious  time 
for  me  ;  and  I  got  through  the  rest  of  the  week  by  looking 
forward  to  it. 

I  was  wonderfully'relieved  to  find  that  my  aunt  and  Dora's 
aunts  rubbed  on,  all  things  considered,  much  more  smoothly 
than  I  could  have  expected.  My  aunt  made  her  promised 
visit  within  a  few  days  of  the  conference;  and  within  a  few 
more  days,  Dora's  aunts  called  upon  her,  in  due  state  and 
form.  Similar  but  more  friendly  exchanges  took  place 
afterwards,  usually  at  intervals  of  three  or  four  weeks.  I 
know  that  my  aunt  distressed  Dora's  aunts  very  much,  by 
utterly  setting  at  naught  the  dignity  of  fly-conveyance,  and 
walking  out  to  Putney  at  extraordinary  times,  as  shortly 
after  breakfast  or  just  before  tea;  likewise  by  wearing  her 
bonnet  in  any  manner  that  happened  to  be  comfortable  to 
her  head,  without  at  all  deferring  to  the  prejudices  of  civili- 
zation on  that  subject.  But  Dora's  aunts  soon  agreed  to 
regard  my  aunt  as  an  eccentric  and  somewhat  masculine 
lady,  with  a  strong  understanding;  and  although  my  aunt 
occasionally  ruffled  the  feathers  of  Dora's  aunts  by  express- 
ing heretical  opinions  on  various  points  of  ceremony,  she 
loved  me  too  well  not  to  sacrifice  some  of  her  little  peculiari- 
ties to  the  general  harmony. 

The  only  member  of  our  small  society,  who  positively  re- 
fused to  adapt  himself  to  circumstances,  was  Jip.  He  nev- 
er saw  my  aunt  without  immediately  displaying  every  tooth 
in  his  head,  retiring  under  a  chair,  and  growling  incessantly: 
with  now  and  then  a  doleful  howl,  as  if  she  really  were  too 
much  for  his  feelings.  All  kinds  of  treatment  were  tried 
with  him,  coaxing,  scolding,  slapping,  bringing  him  to 
Buckingham  Street  (where  he  instantly  dashed  at  the  two 
cats,  to  the  terror  of  all  beholders);  but  he  never  could  pre- 
vail upon  himself  to  bear  my  aunt's  society.  He  would 
sometimes  think  he  had  got  the  better  of  his  objection,  and 
be  amiable  for  a  few  minutes;  and  then  would  put  up  his 
snub  nose,  and  howl  to  that  extent  that  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  blind  him  and  put  hira  in  the  plate-warmer. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


597 


At  length,  Dora  regularly  muffled  him  in  a  towel  and  shut 
him  up  there,  whenever  my  aunt  was  reported  at  the  door. 

One  thing  troubled  me  much,  after  we  had  fallen  into  this 
quiet  train.  It  was,  that  Dora  seemed  by  one  consent  to  be  re- 
garded like  a  pretty  toy  or  plaything.  My  aunt,  with  whom 
she  gradually  became  familiar,  always  called  her  Little  Blos- 
som; and  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Lavinia's  life  was  to  wait  upon 
her,  curl  her  hair,  make  ornaments  for  her,  and  treat  her  like 
a  pet  child.  What  Miss  Lavinia  did,  her  sister  did  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  It  was  very  odd  to  me;  but  they  all  seemed 
to  treat  Dora,  in  her  degree,  much  as  Dora  treated  Jip  in  his. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  Dora  about  this;  and  one 
day  when  we  were  out  walking  (for  we  were  licensed  by  MisG 
Lavinia,  after  a  while,  to  go  out  walking  by  ourselves),  I  said 
to  her  that  I  wished  she  could  get  them  to  behave  towards 
her  differently. 

"  Because  you  know,  my  darling,"  I  remonstrated,  "  you 
are  not  a  child." 

"  There!"  said  Dora.     "  Now  you're  going  to  be  cross!" 

"  Cross,  my  love  ?" 

**  I  am  sure  they're  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Dora,  "  and  I 
am  very  happy." 

"Well!  But  my  dearest  life!"  said  I,  "you  might  be  very 
happy,  and  yet  be  treated  rationally." 

Dora  gave  me  a  repreachful  look — the  prettiest  look! — and 
then  began  to  sob,  saying  if  I  didn't  like  her,  why  had  I  ever 
wanted  so  much  to  be  engaged  to  her  ?  And  why  didn't  I 
go  away,  now,  if  I  couldn't  bear  her? 

What  could  I  do,  but  kiss  away  her  tears,  and  tell  her  now 
I  doted  on  her,  after  that! 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  very  affectionate,"  said  Dora;  *'  you 
oughtn't  to  be  cruel  to  me,  Doady!" 

"Cruel,  my  precious  love!  As  if  I  would — or  could — be 
cruel  to  you,  for  the  world!" 

"  Then  don't  find  fault  with  me,"  said  Dora,  making  a  rose- 
bud of  her  mouth;  "and  I'll  be  good." 

I  was  charmed  by  her  presently  asking  me,  of  her  own 
accord,  to  give  her  that  cookery-book  I  had  once  spoken  of, 
and  to  show  her  how  to  keep  accounts  as  I  had  once  prom- 
ised I  would.  I  brought  the  volume  with  me  on  my  next 
visit  (I  got  it  prettily  bound,  first,  to  make  it  look  less  dry 
and  more  inviting)  and  as  we  strolled  about  the  Common,  I 
showed  her  an  old  housekeeping  book  of  my  aunt's,  and 


598  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

gave  her  a  set  of  tablets,  and  a  pretty  little  pencil  case  and 
box  of  leads,  to  practice  housekeeping  with. 

But  the  cookery-book  made  Dora's  head  ache,  and  the 
figures  made  her  cry.  They  wouldn't  add  up,  she  said.  So 
she  rubbed  them  out,  and  drew  nosegays,  and  likenesses  of 
me  and  Jip,  all  over  the  tablets. 

Then  I  playfully  tried  verbal  instruction  in  domestic  mat- 
ters, as  we  walked  about  on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Some- 
times, for  example,  when  we  passed  a  butcher's  shop,  I 
would  say  : 

"  Now  suppose,  my  pet,  that  we  were  married,  and  you 
were  going  to  buy  a  shoulder  of  mutton  for  dinner,  would 
you  know  how  to  buy  it  ? " 

My  pretty  little  Dora's  face  would  fall,  and  she  would 
make  her  mouth  into  a  bud  again,  as  if  she  would  very  much 
prefer  to  shut  mine  with  a  kiss. 

"  Would  you  know  how  to  buy  it,  my  darling  ? "  I  would 
repeat,  perhaps,  if  I  were  very  inflexible. 

Dora  would  think  a  little,  and  then  reply,  perhaps,  with 
great  triumph  : 

"  Why,  the  butcher  would  know  how  to  sell  it,  and  what 
need  /  know  ?     Oh,  you  silly  boy  !  " 

So,  when  I  once  asked  Dora,  with  an  eye  to  the  cookery- 
book,  what  she  would  do,  if  we  were  married,  and  I  were  to 
say  I  should  like  a  nice  Irish  stew,  she  replied  that  she 
would  tell  the  servant  to  make  it ;  and  then  clapped  her  lit- 
tle hands  together  across  my  arm,  and  laughed  in  such  a 
charming  manner  that  she  was  more  delightful  than  ever. 

Consequently,  the  principal  use  to  which  the  cookery-book 
was  devoted,  was  being  put  down  in  the  corner  for  Jip  to 
stand  upon.  But  Dora  was  so  pleased,  when  she  had 
trained  him  to  stand  upon  it  without  offering  to  come  off, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  hold  the  pencil-case  in  his  mouth, 
that  I  was  very  glad  I  had  bought  it. 

And  we  fell  back  on  the  guitar-case,  and  the  flower-paint- 
ing, and  the  songs  about  never  leaving  off  dancing,  Ta  ra 
la  !  and  were  as  happy  as  the  week  was  long.  I  occasion- 
ally wished  I  could  venture  to  hint  to  Miss  Lavinia  that  she 
treated  the  darling  of  my  heart  a  little  too  much  like  a  play- 
thing ;  and  I  sometimes  awoke,  as  it  were,  wondering  to  find 
that  I  had  fallen  into  the  general  fault,  and  treated  her  like 
a  plaything  too — but  not  often. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  599 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

MISCHIEF. 

I  FEEL  as  if  it  were  not  for  me  to  record,  even  though  this 
manuscript  is  intended  for  no  eyes  but  mine,  how  hard  I 
worked  at  that  tremendous  short-hand,  and  all  improvement 
appertaining  to  it,  in  my  sense  of  responsibility  to  Dora  and 
her  aunts.  I  will  only  add,  to  what  I  have  already  written 
of  my  perseverance  at  this  time  of  my  Ufe,  and  of  a  patient 
and  continuous  energy  which  then  began  to  be  matured 
within  me,  and  which  I  know  to  be  the  strong  part  of  my 
character,  if  it  have  any  strength  at  all,  that  there,  on  look- 
ing back,  I  find  the  source  of  my  success.  I  have  been 
very  fortunate  in  worldly  matters;  many  men  have  worked 
much  harder,  and  not  succeeded  half  so  well;  but  I  never 
could  have  done  what  I  have  done  without  the  habits  of 
punctuality,  order,  and  diligence,  without  the  determination 
to  concentrate  myself  on  one  object  at  a  time,  no  matter 
how  quickly  its  successor  should  come  upon  its  heels,  which 
I  then  formed.  Heaven  knows  I  write  this  in  no  spirit  of 
self-laudation.  The  man  who  reviews  his  own  life,  as  I  do 
mine,  in  going  on  here,  from  page  to  page,  had  need  to  have 
been  a  good  man,  indeed,  if  he  would  be  spared  the  sharp 
consciousness  of  many  talents  neglected,  many  opportunities 
wasted,  many  erratic  and  perverted  feelings  constantly  at 
war  within  his  breast,  and  defeating  him.  I  do  not  hold  one 
natural  gift,  I  dare  say,  that  I  have  not  abused.  My  mean- 
ing simply  is,  that  whatever  I  have  tried  to  do  in  life,  I  have 
tried  with  all  my  heart  to  do  well;  that  whatever  I  have  de- 
voted myself  to,  I  have  devoted  myself  to  completely;  that, 
in  great  aims  and  in  small;  I  have  always  been  thoroughly  in 
earnest.  I  have  never  believed  it  possible  that  any  natural 
or  improved  ability  can  claim  immunity  from  the  com- 
panionship of  the  steady,  plain,  hard-working  qualities,  and 
hope  to  gain  its  end.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  such  ful- 
fillment on  this  earth.  Some  happy  talent,  and  some  for- 
tunate opportunity,  may  form  the  two  sides  of  the  ladder  on 
which  some  men  mount,  but  the  rounds  of  that  ladder  must 
be  made  of  stuff  to  stand  wear  and  tear;  and  there  is  no 
substitute  for  thorough-going,  ardent,  and  sincere  earnest- 
ness.    Never  to  put  one  hand  to  anything,  on  which  I  could 


6oo  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

throw  my  whole  self;  and  never  to  affect  depreciation  of 
my  work,  whatever  it  was;  I  find,  now,  to  have  been  my 
golden  rules. 

How  much  of  the  practice  I  have  just  reduced  to  precept, 
I  owe  to  Agnes,  I  will  not  repeat  here.  My  narrative  pro- 
ceeds to  Agnes,  with  a  thankful  love. 

She  came  on  a  visit  of  a  fortnight  to  the  Doctor's.  Mr. 
Wickfield  was  the  Doctor's  old  friend,  and  the  Doctor 
wished  to  talk  with  him,  and  do  him  good.  It  had  been 
matter  of  conversation  with  Agnes  when  she  was  last  in 
town,  and  this  visit  was  the  result.  She  and  her  father 
came  together.  I  was  not  much  surprised  to  hear  from  her 
that  she  had  engaged  to  find  a  lodging  in  the  neighborhood 
for  Mrs.  Heep.  whose  rheumatic  complaint  required  change 
of  air,  and  who  would  be  charmed  to  have  it  in  such  com- 
pany. Neither  was  I  surprised  when,  on  the  very  next  day, 
Uriah,  like  a  dutiful  son,  brought  his  worthy  mother  to  take 
possession. 

''  You  see,  Master  Copperfield,"  said  he,  as  he  forced  him- 
self upon  my  company  for  a  turn  in  the  Doctor's  garden, 
"  where  a  person  loves,  a  person  is  a  little  jealous — least- 
ways, anxious  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  beloved  one." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  jealous,  now  ?"  said  I. 

"  Thanks  to  you.  Master  Copperfield,"  he  returned,  "  of 
no  one  in  particular  just  at  present — no  male  person,  at  least." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  jealous  of  a  female  person  ?" 

He  gave  me  a  sidelong  glance,  out  of  his  sinister  red  eyes, 
and  laughed. 

"  Really,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  said,  " — I  should  say 
Mister,  but  I  know  you'll  excuse  the  abit  I've  got  into — 
you're  so  insinuating,  that  you  draw  me  like  a  corkscrew! 
Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  putting  his  fish-like  hand  on 
mine,  **  I'm  not  a  lady's  man  in  general,  sir,  and  I  never 
was,  with  Mrs.  Strong." 

His  eyes  looked  green  now,  as  they  watched  mine  with  a 
rascally  cunning. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  I. 

"Why,  though  I  am  a  lawyer.  Master  Copperfield,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  dry  grin,  *'  I  mean,  just  at  present,  what  I  say.'* 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  your  look,"  I  retorted,  quietly. 

"  By  my  look  ?  Dear  me,  Copperfield,  that's  sharp  prac- 
tice !     What  do  I  mean  by  my  look  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I.     "  By  your  look." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  60 1 

He  seemed  very  much  amused,  and  laughed  as  heartily  as 
it  was  in  his  nature  to  laugh.  After  some  scraping  of  his 
chin  with  his  hand,  he  went  on  to  say,  with  his  eyes  cast 
downward — still  scraping,  very  slowly  : 

''  When  I  was  but  a  numble  clerk,  she  always  looked  down 
upon  me.  She  was  for  ever  having  my  Agnes  backwards 
and  forwards  at  her  ouse,  and  she  was  for  ever  being  a  friend 
to  you.  Master  Copperfield  ;  but  I  was  too  far  beneath  her, 
myself,  to  be  noticed." 

**  Well  ?  "  said  I  ;  "  suppose  you  were  ?  " 

" — And  beneath  him,  too,"  pursued  Uriah,  very  dis- 
tinctly, and  in  a  meditative  tone  of  voice,  as  he  continued  to 
scrape  his  chin. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  Doctor  better,"  said  I,  "  than  to 
suppose  him  conscious  of  your  existence,  when  you  were 
not  before  him  ?  " 

He  directed  his  eyes  at  me  in  that  sidelong  glance  again, 
and  he  made  his  face  very  lantern-jawed,  for  the  greater 
convenience  of  scraping,  as  he  answered  : 

"  Oh  dear,  I  am  not  referring  to  the  Doctor  !  Oh  no, 
poor  man  !     I  mean  Mr.  Maldon  !  " 

My  heart  quite  died  within  me.  All  my  old  doubts  and 
apprehensions  on  that  subject,  all  the  Doctor's  happiness 
and  peace,  all  the  mingled  possibilities  of  innocence  and 
compromise,  that  I  could  not  unravel,  I  saw,  in  a  moment, 
at  the  mercy  of  this  fellow's  twisting. 

"  He  never  could  come  into  the  office,  without  ordering 
and  shoving  me  about,"  said  Uriah.  "  One  of  your  fine 
gentlemen  he  was  !  I  was  very  meek  and  umble — and  I  am. 
But  I  didn't  Hke  that  sort  of  thing — and  I  don't." 

He  left  off  scraping  his  chin,  and  sucked  in  his  cheeks 
until  they  seemed  to  meet  inside ;  keeping  his  sidelong 
glance  upon  me  all  the  while. 

"  She  is  one  of  your  lovely  women,  she  is,"  he  pursued, 
when  he  had  slowly  restored  his  face  to  its  natural  form  ; 
*'  and  ready  to  be  no  friend  to  such  as  me,  I  know.  She's 
just  the  person  as  would  put  my  Agnes  up  to  higher  sort  of 
game.  Now,  I  ain't  one  of  your  lady's  men,  Master  Cop- 
perfield ;  but  I've  had  eyes  in  my  ed,  a  pretty  long  time 
back.  We  umble  ones  have  got  eyes,  mostly  speaking — and 
we  look  out  of  'em." 

I  endeavored  to  appear  unconscious  and  not  disquieted, 
but,  I  saw  in  his  face,  with  poor  success. 


6o2  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Now,  I'm  not  agoing  to  let  myself  be  run  down,  Cop- 
perfield,"  he  continued,  raising  that  part  of  his  countenance 
where  his  red  eyebrows  would  have  been  if  he  had  had  any, 
with  malignant  triumph,  "  and  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  put 
a  stop  to  this  friendship.  I  don't  approve  of  it.  I  don  t 
mind  acknowledging  to  you  that  I've  got  rather  a  grudging 
disposition,  and  want  to  keep  off  all  intruders.  I  ain't 
agoing,  if  I  know  it,  to  run  the  risk  of  being  plotted  against." 

"  You  are  always  plotting,  and  delude  yourself  into  the 
belief  that  everybody  else  is  doing  the  like,  I  think,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  so,  Master  Copperfield,"  he  replied.  "  But  I've 
got  a  motive,  as  my  fellow- partner  used  to  say  ;  and  I  go  at 
it  tooth  and  nail.  I  mustn't  be  put  upon,  as  a  numble  per- 
son, too  much.  I  can't  allow  people  in  my  way.  Really 
they  must  come  out  of  the  cart,  Master  Copperfield  !  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  I. 

"  Don't  you,  though  ?  "  he  returned,  with  one  of  his  jerks. 
"  I'm  astonished  at  that.  Master  Copperfield,  you  being  usu- 
ally so  quick  !  I'll  try  to  be  plainer — another  time. — Is  that 
Mr.  Maldon  a-norseback,  ringing  at  the  gate,  sir  ? " 

"  It  looks  like»him,"  I  replied,  as  carelessly  as  I  could. 

Uriah  stopped  short,  put  his  hands  between  his  great 
knobs  of  knees,  and  doubled  himself  up  with  laughter.  With 
perfectly  silent  laughter.  Not  a  sound  escaped  from  him. 
I  was  so  repelled  by  his  odious  behavior,  particularly  by  this 
concluding  instance,  that  I  turned  away  without  any  cere- 
mony ;  and  left  him  doubled  up  in  the  middle  of  the  gar- 
den, like  a  scarecrow  in  want  of  support. 

It  was  not  on  that  evening;  but  as  I  well  remember,  on 
the  next  evening  but  one,  which  was  a  Saturday  ;  that  I 
took  Agnes  to  see  Dora.  I  had  arranged  the  visit,  before- 
hand, with  Miss  Lavinia;  and  Agnes  was  expected  to  tea. 

I  was  in  a  flutter  of  pride  and  anxiety;  pride  in  my  dear 
little  betrothed,  and  anxiety  that  Agnes  should  like  her. 
All  the  way  to  Putney,  Agnes  being  inside  the  stage-coach, 
and  I  outside,  I  pictured  Dora  to  myself  in  every  one  of  the 
pretty  looks  I  knew  so  well;  now  making  up  my  mind  that 
I  should  like  her  to  look  exactly  as  she  looked  at  such  a 
time,  and  then  doubting  whether  I  should  not  prefer  her 
looking  as  she  looked  at  such  another  time;  and  almost 
worrying  myself  into  a  fever  about  it. 

,    I  was  troubled  by  no  doubt  of  her  being  very  pretty,  in 
any  case;  but  it  fell  out  that  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  603 

well.  She  was  not  in  the  drawing-room  when  I  presented 
Agnes  to  her  little  aunts,  but  was  shyly  keeping  out  of  the 
way.  I  knew  where  to  look  for  her  now;  and  sure  enough 
I  found  her  stopping  her  ears  again,  behind  the  same  dull 
old  door. 

At  first  she  wouldn't  come  at  all:  and  then  she  pleaded 
for  five  minutes  by  my  watch.  When  at  length  she  put  her 
arm  through  mine,  to  be  taken  to  the  drawing-room,  her 
charming  little  face  was  flushed,  and  had  never  been  so 
pretty.  But,  when  we  went  into  the  room,  and  it  turned 
pale,  she  was  ten  thousand  times  prettier  yet. 

Dora  was  afraid  of  Agnes.  She  had  told  me  that  she 
knew  Agnes  was  *'  too  clever."  But  when  she  saw  her  look- 
ing at  once  so  cheerful  and  so  earnest,  and  so  thoughtful 
and  so  good,  she  gave  a  faint  little  cry  of  pleased  surprise, 
and  just  put  her  affectionate  arm^  round  Agnes's  neck,  and 
laid  her  innocent  cheek  against  her  face. 

I  never  was  so  happy.  I  never  was  so  pleased  as  when  I 
saw  those  two  sit  down  together,  side  by  side.  As  when  I 
saw  my  little  darling  looking  up  so  naturally  to  those  cordial 
eyes.  As  when  T  saw  the  tender,  beautiful  regard  which 
Agnes  cast  upon  he^. 

Miss  Lavinia  and  Miss  Clarissa  partook,  in  their  way,  of 
my  joy.  It  was  the  pleasantest  tea-table  in  the  world. 
Miss  Clarissa  presided.  I  cut  and  handed  the  sweet  seed- 
cake— the  little  sisters  had  a  bird-like  fondness  for  picking 
up  seeds  and  pecking  at  sugar;  Miss  Lavinia  looked  on  with 
benignant  patronage,  as  if  our  happy  love  were  all  her  work; 
and  we  were  perfectly  contented  with  ourselves  and  one 
another. 

The  gentle  cheerfulness  of  Agnes  went  to  all  their  hearts. 
Her  quiet  interest  in  everything  that  interested  Dora;  her 
manner  of  making  acquaintance  with  Jip  (who  responded 
instantly),  her  pleasant  way,  when  Dora  was  ashamed  to 
come  over  to  her  usual  seat  by  me;  her  modest  grace  and 
ease,  eliciting  a  crowd  of  blushing  little  marks  of  confidence 
from  Dora;  seemed  to  make  our  circle  quite  complete. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Dora,  after  tea,  "  that  you  like  me. 
I  didn't  think  you  would  ;  and  I  want,  more  than  ever,  ta 
be  liked,  now  Julia  Mills  is  gone." 

I  have  omitted  to  mention  it,  by-the-by.  Miss  Mills  had 
sailed,  and  Dora  and  I  had  gone  aboard  a  great  East  India- 
man  at  tjravesend  to  see  her;  and  we  had  preserved  gingei; 


6o4  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

and  guava,  and  other  delicacies  of  that  sort  for  lunch  ;  and 
we  had  left  Miss  Mills  weeping  on  a  camp-stool  on  the 
quarter-deck,  with  a  large  new  diary  under  her  arm,  in  which 
the  original  reflections  awakened  by  the  contemplation  of 
Ocean  were  to  be  recorded  under  lock  and  key. 

Agnes  said  she  was  afraid  I  must  have  given  her  an  unprom- 
ising character  ;  but  Dora  corrected  that  directly. 

*'  Oh  no  !  "  she  said,  shaking  her  curls  at  me  ;  "  it  was  all 
praise.  He  thinks  so  much  of  your  opinion,  that  I  was 
quite  afraid  of  it." 

'*  My  good  opinion  cannot  strengthen  his  attachment  to 
some  people  whom  he  knows,"  said  Agnes,  with  a  smile  ;  "  it 
is  not  worth  their  having." 

'*  But  please  let  me  have  it,"  said  Dora  in  her  coaxing 
way,  "  if  you  can  !  " 

We  made  merry  about  Dora's  wanting  to  be  liked,  and 
Dora  said  I  was  a  goose,  and  she  didn't  like  me  at  any  rate, 
and  the  short  evening  flew  away  on  gossamer  wings.  The 
time  was  at  hand  when  the  coach  was  to  call  for  us.  I  was 
standing  alone  before  the  fire,  when  Dora  came  stealing 
softly  in,  to  give  me  that  usual  precious  little  kiss  before  I 
went. 

"  Don't  you  think,  if  I  had  had  her  for  a  friend  a  long 
time  ago,  Doady,"  said  Dora,  her  bright  eyes  shining  very 
brightly,  and  her  little  right  hand  idly  busying  itself  with 
one  of  the  buttons  of  my  coat,  "  I  might  have  been  more 
clever  perhaps  ?  " 

"  My  love!"  said  I,  "  what  nonsense!" 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  nonsense  ?"  returned  Dora,  without 
looking  at  me.     "  Are  you  sure  it  is  ?" 

''Of  course  I  am!" 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  said  Dora,  still  turning  the  button 
round  and  round,  "  what  relation  Agnes  is  to  you,  you  dear 
bad  boy." 

''No  blood  relation,"  I  replied;  "but  we  were  brought 
up  together,  like  brother  and  sister." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  ever  fell  in  love  with  me  ?"  said  Dora, 
beginning  on  another  button  of  my  coat. 

"  Perhaps  because  I  couldn't  see  you  and  not  love  you, 
Dora." 

"  Suppose  you  had  never  seen  me  at  all,"  said  Dora,  going 
to  another  button. 

"  Suppose  we  had  never  been  born!"  said  I,  gayly. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  605 

I  wondered  what  she  was  thinking  about,  as  I  glanced  in 
admiring  silence  at  the  little  soft  hand  traveUng  up  the  row 
of  buttons  on  my  coat,  and  at  the  clustering  hair  that  lay 
against  my  breast,  and  at  the  lashes  of  her  downcast  eyes, 
slightly  rising  as  they  followed  her  idle  fingers.  At  length 
her  eyes  were  lifted  up  to  mine,  and  she  stood  on  tiptoe  to 
give  me,  more  thoughtfully  than  usual,  that  precious  little 
kiss — once,  twice,  three  times — and  went  out  of  the  room. 

They  all  came  back  together  within  five  minutes  after- 
wards, and  Dora's  unusual  thoughtfulness  was  quite  gone 
then.  She  was  laughingly  resolved  to  put  Jip  through  the 
whole  of  his  performances,  before  the  coach  came.  They 
took  some  time  (not  so  much  on  account  of  their  variety,  as 
Jip's  reluctance),  and  were  still  unfinished  when  it  was  heard 
at  the  door.  There  was  a  hurried  but  affectionate  parting  be- 
tween Agnes  and  herself;  and  Dora  was  to  write  to  Agnes 
(who  was  not  to  mind  her  letters  being  foolish,  she  said),  and 
Agnes  was  to  write  to  Dora;  and  they  had  a  second  parting 
at  the  coach-door,  and  a  third  when  Dora,  in  spite  of  the 
remonstrances  of  Miss  Lavinia,  would  come  running  out 
once  more  to  remind  Agnes  at  the  coach-window  about 
writing,  and  to  shake  her  curls  at  me  on  the  box. 

The  stage  coach  was  to  put  us  down  near  Covent  Garden, 
where  we  were  to  take  another  stage-coach  for  Highgate.  I 
was  impatient  for  the  short  walk  in  the  interval,  that  Agnes 
might  praise  Dora  to  me.  Ah!  what  praise  it  was!  How 
lovingly  and  fervently  did  it  commend  the  pretty  creature  I 
had  won,  with  all  her  artless  graces  best  displayed,  to  my 
most  gentle  care!  How  thoughtfully  remind  me,  yet  with 
no  pretense  of  doing  so,  of  the  trust  in  which  I  held  the 
orphan  child! 

Never,  never,  had  I  loved  Dora  so  deeply  and  truly,  as  I 
loved  her  that  night.  When  we  had  again  alighted,  and  were 
walking  in  the  starlight  along  the  quiet  road  that  led  to  the 
Doctor's  house,  I  told  Agnes  that  it  was  her  doing. 

"  When  you  were  sitting  by  her,"  said  I,  "  you  seemed  to 
be  no  less  her  guardian  angel  than  mine;  and  you  seem  so 
now,  Agnes." 

"A  poor  angel,"  sbi'  returned,  "but  faithful." 

The  clear  tone  of  her  voice,  going  straight  to  my  hearty 
made  it  natural  to  me  to  say: 

"  The  cheerfulness  that  belongs  to  you,  Agnes  (and  to  no 
one  else  that  ever  I  have  seen),  is  so  restored,  I  have  ob- 


6o6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

served  to-day,  that  I  have  begun  to  hope  you  are  happier  at 
home  ?" 

"  I  am  happier  in  myself,"  she  said;  "I  am  quite  cheerful 
and  light-hearted." 

I  glanced  at  the  serene  face  looking  upward,  and  thought 
it  was  the  stars  that  made  it  seem  so  noble. 

**  There  has  been  no  change  at  home,"  said  Agnes,  after  a 
few  moments. 

"  No  fresh  reference,"  said  I,  "  to — I  wouldn't  distress 
you,  Agnes,  but  I  cannot  help  asking — to  what  we  spoke  of, 
when  we  parted  last  ?" 

"  No,  none,"  she  answered.  ' 

"  I  have  thought  so  much  about  it." 

**  You  must  think  less  about  it.  Remember  that  I  confide 
in  simple  love  and  truth  at  last.  Have  no  apprehensions 
for  me,  Trotwood,"  she  added  after  a  moment;  "the  step 
you  dread  my  taking,  I  shall  never  take." 

Although  I  think  I  had  never  really  feared  it,  in  any 
season  of  cool  reflection,  it  was  an  unspeakable  relief  to 
me  to  have  this  assurance  from  her  own  truthful  lips.  I 
told  her  so,  earnestly. 

"  And  when  this  visit  is  over,"  said  I, — "  for  we  may  not 
be  alone  another  time, — how  long  is  it  likely  to  be,  my  dear 
Agnes,  before  you  come  to  London  again  ?" 

"  Probably  a  long  time,"  she  replied;  "  I  think  it  will  be 
best — for  papa's  sake — to  remain  at  home.  We  are  not 
likely  to  meet  often,  for  some  time  to  come:  but  I  shall  be 
a  good  correspondent  of  Dora's,  and  we  shall  frequently  hear 
of  one  another  that  way." 

We  were  now  within  the  little  court-yard  of  the  Doctor's 
cottage.  It  was  growing  late.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
window  of  Mrs.  Strong's  chamber,  and  Agnes,  pointing  to 
it,  bade  me  good  night. 

"  Do  not  be  troubled,"  she  said,  giving  me  her  hand,  "by 
our  misfortunes  and  anxieties.  I  can  be  happier  in  nothing 
than  in  your  happiness.  If  you  can  ever  give  me  help,  rely 
upon  it  I  will  ask  you  for  it.     God  bless  you  always  !" 

In  her  beaming  smile,  and  in  these  last  tones  of  her  cheer- 
ful voice,  I  seemed  again  to  see  and  hear  my  little  Dora  in 
her  company.  T  stood  awhile,  looking  through  the  porch 
at  the  stars,  with  a  heart  full  of  love  and  gratitude,  and  then 
walked  slowly  forth.  I  had  engaged  a  bed  at  a  decent  ale- 
house close  by,  and  was  going  out  at  the  gate,   when,   hap- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  607 

pening  to  turn  my  head,  I  saw  a  light  in  the  Doctor's  study. 
A  half-reproachful  fancy  came  into  my  mind,  that  he  had 
been  working  at  the  Dictionary  without  my  help.  With 
the  view  of  seeing  if  this  were  so,  and,  in  any  case,  of  bid- 
ding him  good  night,  if  he  were  yet  sitting  among  his  books, 
I  turned  back,  and  going  softly  across  the  hall,  and  gently 
opening  the  door,  looked  in. 

The  first  person  whom  I  saw,  to  my  surprise,  by  the  sober 
light  of  the  shaded  lamp,  was  Uriah.  He  was  standing 
close  beside  it,  with  one  of  his  skeleton  hands  over  his 
mouth,  and  the  other  resting  on  the  Doctor's  table.  The 
Doctor  sat  in  his  study  chair,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands.  Mr.  Wickfield,  sorely  troubled  and  distressed,  was 
leaning  forward,  irresolutely  touching  the  Doctor's  arm. 

For  an  instant,  I  supposed  that  the  Doctor  was  ill.  I 
hastily  advanced  a  step  under  that  impression,  when  I  met 
Uriah's  eye,  and  saw  what  was  the  matter.  I  would  have 
withdrawn,  but  the  Doctor  made  a  gesture  to  detain  me, 
and  I  remained. 

"At  any  rate,"  observed  Uriah,  with  a  writhe  of  his  un- 
gainly person,  "  we  may  keep  the  door  shut.  We  needn't 
make  it  known  to  all  the  town." 

Saying  which,  he  went  on  his  toes  to  the  door,  which  I 
had  left  open,  and  carefully  closed  it.  He  then  came  back, 
and  took  up  his  former  position.  There  was  an  obtrusive 
show  of  compassionate  zeal  in  his  voice  and  manner,  more 
intolerable — at  least  to  me — than  any  demeanor  he  could 
have  assumed. 

"  I  have  felt  it  incumbent  upon  me.  Master  Copperfield," 
said  Uriah,  "  to  point  out  to  Doctor  Strong  what  you  and 
me  have  already  talked  about.  You  didn't  exactly  under- 
stand me,  though  !" 

I  gave  him  a  look,  but  no  other  answer;  and,  going  to 
my  good  old  master,  said  a  few  words  that  I  meant  to  be 
words  of  comfort  and  encouragement.  He  put  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  as  it  had  been  his  custom  to  do  when  I 
was  quite  a  little  fellow,  but  did  not  lift  his  gray  head. 

**  As  you  didn't  understand  me.  Master  Copperfield,"  re- 
sumed Uriah  in  the  same  officious  manner,  ''  I  may  take  the 
liberty  of  umbly  mentioning,  being  among  friends,  that  I 
have  called  Doctor  Strong's  attention  to  the  goings-on  of 
Mrs.  Strong.  It*s  much  against  the  grain  with  me,  I  assure 
you,  Copperfield,  to  be  concerned  in  anything  so  unpleasant; 


Cos  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

but,  really,  as  it  is,  we're  all  mixing  ourselves  up  with  what 
oughtn't  to  be.  That  was  what  my  meaning  was,  sir,  when 
you  didn't  understand  me." 

I  wonder,  now,  when  I  recall  his  leer,  that  I  did  not 
collar  him,  and  try  to  shake  the  breath  out  of  his  body. 

"  I  dare  say  I  didn't  make  myself  very  clear,"  he  went  on, 
**  nor  you  neither.  Naturally,  we  was  both  of  us  inclined  to 
give  such  a  subject  a  wide  berth.  Hows'ever,  at  last  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  speak  plain;  and  I  mentioned  to  Doc- 
tor Strong  that — did  you  speak,  sir  ?" 

This  was  to  the  Doctor,  who  had  moaned.  The  sound 
might  have  touched  any  heart,  I  thought,  but  it  had  no 
effect  upon  Uriah's. 

" — mentioned  to  Doctor  Strong,"  he  proceeded,  "that 
any  one  may  see  that  Mr.  Maldon,  and  the  lovely  and  agree- 
able lady  as  is  Doctor  Strong's  wife,  are  too  sweet  on  one 
another.  Really  the  time  is  come  (we  being  at  present  all 
mixing  ourselves  up  with  what  oughtn't  to  be),  when  Doctor 
Strong  must  be  told  that  this  was  full  as  plain  to  everybody 
as  the  sun,  before  Mr.  Maldon  went  to  India;  that  Mr. 
Maldon  made  excuses  to  come  back,  for  nothing  else;  and 
that  he's  always  here,  for  nothing  else.  When  you  come  in, 
sir,  I  was  just  putting  it  to  my  fellow-partner,"  towards 
whom  he  turned,  *'  to  say  to  Doctor  Strong  upon  his  word 
and  honor,  whether  he'd  ever  been  of  this  opinion  long  ago, 
or  not.  Come,  Mr.  Wickfield,  sir!  Would  you  be  so  good 
as  tell  us  ?     Yes  or  no,  sir  ?     Come,  partner!" 

"  For  God's  sake,  my  dear  Doctor,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield, 
again  laying  his  irresolute  hand  upon  the  Doctor's  arm, 
"  don't  attach  too  much  weight  to  any  suspicions  I  may 
have  entertained." 

"There!"  cried  Uriah,  shaking  his  head.  "What  a 
melancholy  confirmation  :  ain't  it  ?  Him  !  Such  an  old 
friend  !  Bless  your  soul,  when  I  was  nothing  but  a  clerk  in 
his  office,  Copperfield,  I've  seen  him  twenty  times,  if  I've 
seen  him  once,  quite  in  a  taking  about  it — quite  put  out, 
you  know  (and  very  proper  in  him  as  a  father  !  I'm  sure  / 
can't  blame  him),  to  think  that  Miss  Agnes  was  mixing  her- 
self up  with  what  oughtn't  to  be." 

"  My  dear  Strong,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "my  good  friend,  I  needn't  tell  you  that  it  has  been 
my  vice  to  look  for  some  one  master  motive  in  everybody, 
and   to   try  all   actions  by   one   narrow  test.     I  may  hav^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  609 

fallen    into  such   doubts  as  I  have  had,   llirough   this  mis- 
take." 

'"You  have  had  doubts,  Wickfield,"  said  the  Doctor, 
without  lifting  up  his  head.     "  You  have  had  doubts." 

"  Speak  up,  fellow-partner,"  urged  Uriah. 

"  I  had  at  one  time,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  "  I — 
God  forgive  me — I  thought 7^2^  had." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  returned  the  Doctor,  in  a  tone  of  most 
pathetic  grief. 

"  I  thought,  at  one  time,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  "  that  you 
wished  to  send  Maldon  abroad  to  effect  a  desirable  separa- 
tion." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  returned  the  Doctor.  "  To  give  Annie 
pleasure,  by  making  some  provision  for  the  companion  of 
her  childhood.     Nothing  else." 

"  So  I  found,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '*  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 
when  you  told  me  so.  But  I  thought — I  implore  you  to  re- 
member the  narrow  construction  which  has  been  my  beset- 
ting sin — that,  in  a  case  where  there  is  so  much  disparity  in 
point  of  years — " 

"  That's  the  way  to  put  it,  you  see.  Master  Copperfield  !" 
observed  Uriah,  with  a  fawning  and  offensive  pity. 

"  —  a  lady  of  such  youth,  and  such  attractions,  however 
real  her  respect  for  you,  might  have  been  influenced  in 
marrying,  by  worldly  considerations  only.  I  made  no  allow- 
ance for  innumerable  feelings  and  circumstances  that  may 
have  all  tended  to  good.  For  Heaven's  sake  remember 
that  !  " 

"  How  kind  he  puts  it !  "  said  Uriah,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Always  observing  her  from  one  point  of  view,"  said  Mr. 
Wickfield  ;  "but  by  all  that  is  dear  to  you,  my  old  friend,  I 
entreat  you  to  consider  what  it  was  ;  I  am  forced  to  confess 
now,  having  no  escape — " 

"  No  !  There's  no  way  out  of  it,  Mr.  Wickfield,  sir,"  ob- 
served Uriah,  "when  it's  got  to  this." 

" —  that  I  did,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  glancing  helplessly 
and  distractedly  at  his  partner,  "  that  I  did  doubt  her,  and 
think  her  wanting  in  her  duty  to  you  ;  and  that  I  did  some- 
times, if  I  must  say  all,  feel  averse  to  Agnes  being  in  such  a 
familiar  relation  towards  her,  as  to  see  what  I  saw,  or  in  my 
diseased  theory  fancied  that  I  saw.  I  never  mentioned  this 
to  any  one.  I  never  meant  it  to  be  known  to  any  one. 
And  though  it  is  terrible  to  you  to  hear,"  said  Mr.  Wick- 


6io  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

field,  quite  subdued,"  if  you  knew  how  terrible  it  is  to  me  to 
tell,  you  would  feel  compassion  for  me  !" 

The  Doctor,  in  the  perfect  goodness  of  his  nature,  put 
out  his  hand.  Mr.  Wickfield  held  it  for  a  little  while  in  his, 
with  his  head  bowed   down. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Uriah,  writhing  himself  into  the  silence 
like  a  Conger-eel,  "  that  this  is  a  subject  full  of  unpleasant- 
ness to  everybody.  But  since  we  have  got  so  far,  I  ought 
to  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning  that  Copperfield  has  noticed 
it  too." 

I  turned  upon  him,  and  asked  him  how  he  dared  refer  to 
me! 

"  Oh!  it's  very  kind  of  you,  Copperfield,"  returned  Uriah, 
undulating  all  over,  "  and  we  all  know  what  an  amiable 
character  yours  is;  but  you  know  that  the  moment  I  spoke 
to  you  the  other  night,  you  knew  what  I  meant.  You  know 
you  knew  what  I  meant,  Copperfield.  Don't  deny  it!  You 
deny  it  with  the  best  intentions;  but  don't  do  it,  Copper- 
field!" 

I  saw  the  mild  eye  of  the  good  old  Doctor  turned  upon 
me  for  a  moment,  and  I  felt  that  the  confession  of  my  old 
misgivings  and  remembrances  was  too  plainly  written  in  my 
face  to  be  overlooked.  It  was  of  no  use  raging,  I  could 
not  undo  that.     Say  what  I  would,  I  could  not  unsay  it. 

We  were  silent  again,  and  remained  so,  until  the  Doctor 
rose  and  walked  twice  or  thrice  across  the  room.  Presently 
he  returned  to  where  his  chair  stood;  and,  leaning  on  the 
back  of  it,  and  occasionally  putting  his  handkerchief  to  his 
eyes,  with  a  simple  honesty  that  did  him  more  honor,  to  my 
thinking,  than  any  disguise  he  could  have  affected,  said  : 

"  I  have  been  much  to  blame.  I  believe  I  have  been  very 
much  to  blame.  I  have  exposed  one  whom  I  hold  in  my 
heart,  to  trials  and  aspersions — I  call  them  aspersions,  even 
to  have  been  conceived  in  anybody's  inmost  mind — of  which 
she  never,  but  for  me,  could  have  been  the  object." 

Uriah  Heep  gave  a  kind  of  snivel.  I  think  to  express 
sympathy. 

"  Of  which  my  Annie,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  never,  but  for  me, 
could  have  been  the  object.  Gentlemen,  I  am  old  now,  as 
you  know;  I  do  not  feel,  to-night,  that  I  have  much  to  live 
for.  But  my  life — my  Life — upon  the  truth  and  honor  of 
the  dear  lady  who  has  been  the  subject  of  this  conversa- 
tion!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  6ii 

I  do  not  think  that  the  best  embodiment  of  chivalry,  the 
realization  of  the  handsomest  and  most  romantic  figure  ever 
imagmed  by  painter,  could  have  said  this,  with  a  more  im- 
pressive and  affecting  dignity  than  the  plain  old  Doctor  did. 

"  But  I  am  not  prepared,"  he  went  on,  "  to  deny — per- 
haps I  may  have  been,  without  knowing  it,  in  some  degree 
prepared  to  admit — that  I  may  have  unwittingly  ensnared 
that  lady  into  an  unhappy  marriage.  I  am  a  man  quite  un- 
accustomed to  observe;  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that  the 
observation  of  several  people,  of  different  ages  and  posi- 
tions, all  too  plainly  tending  in  one  direction  (and  that  so 
natural),  is  better  than  mine." 

I  had  often  admired,  as  I  have  elsewhere  described,  his 
benignant  manner  towards  his  youthful  wife;  but  the  re- 
spectful tenderness  he  manifested  in  every  reference  to  her 
on  this  occasion,  and  the  almost  reverential  manner  in  which 
he  put  away  from  him  the  lightest  doubt  of  her  integrity, 
exalted  him,  in  my  eyes,  beyond  description. 

"  I  married  that  lady,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  when  she  was 
extremely  young.  I  took  her  to  myself  when  her  character 
was  scarcely  formed.  So  far  as  it  was  developed,  it  had 
been  my  happiness  to  form  it.  I  knew  her  father  well.  I 
knew  her  well.  I  had  taught  her  what  I  could,  for  the  love 
of  all  her  beautiful  and  virtuous  qualities.  If  I  did  her 
wrong;  as  I  fear  I  did,  in  taking  advantage  (but  I  never 
meant  it)  of  her  gratitude  and  her  affection;  I  ask  pardon  of 
that  lady,  in  my  heart!" 

He  walked  across  the  room,  and  came  back  to  the  same 
place;  holding  the  chair  with  a  grasp  that  trembled,  like  his 
subdued  voice,  in  its  earnestness. 

*'  I  regarded  myself  as  a  refuge,  for  her,  from  the  dangers 
and  vicissitudes  of  life.  I  persuaded  myself  that,  unequal 
though  we  were  in  years,  she  would  live  tranquilly  and  con- 
tentedly with  me.  I  did  not  shut  out  of  my  consideration 
the  time  when  I  should  leave  her  free,  and  still  young  and 
still  beautiful,  but  with  her  judgment  more  matured— no, 
gentlemen — upon  my  truth!" 

His  homely  figure  seemed  to  be  Hghtened  up  by  his  fideli- 
ty and  generosity.  Every  word  he  uttered  had  a  force  that 
no  other  grace  could  have  imparted  to  it. 

"  My  life  with  this  lady  has  been  very  happy.  Until  to- 
night, I  have  had  uninterrupted  occasion  to  bless  the  day 
on  which  I  did  her  great  injustice." 


6i2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

His  voice,  more  and  more  faltering  in  the  utterance 
of  these  words,  stopped  for  a  few  moments;  then  he 
went  on: 

"  Once  awakened  from  my  dream — I  have  been  a  poor 
dreamer,  in  one  way  or  other,  all  my  life — I  see  how  natural 
it  is  that  she  should  have  some  regretful  feeling  towards  her 
old  companion  and  her  equal.  That  she  does  regard  him 
with  some  innocent  regret,  with  some  blameless  thoughts  of 
what  might  have  been,  but  for  me,  is,  I  fear,  too  true.  Much 
that  I  have  seen,  but  not  noted,  has  come  back  upon  me 
with  new  meaning,  during  this  last  trying  hour.  But,  be- 
yond this,  gentlemen,  the  dear  lady's  name  never  must  be 
coupled  with  a  word,  a  breath,  of  doubt." 

For  a  little  while  his  eye  kindled  and  his  voice  was  firm  ; 
for  a  little  while  he  was  again  silent.  Presently,  he  pro- 
ceeded as  before  : 

"  It  only  remains  for  me,  to  bear  the  knowledge  of  the 
unhappiness  I  have  occasioned,  as  submissively  as  I  can. 
It  is  she  who  should  reproach  ;  not  I.  To  save  her  from 
misconstruction,  cruel  misconstruction,  that  even  my  friends 
have  not  been  able  to  avoid,  becomes  my  duty.  The 
more  retired  we  live,  the  better  I  shall  discharge  it.  And 
when  the  time  comes — may  it  come  soon,  if  it  be  His  mer- 
ciful pleasure  ! — when  my  death  shall  release  her  from  con- 
straint, I  shall  close  my  eyes  upon  her  honored  face,  with 
unbounded  confidence  and  love  ;  and  leave  her,  with  no 
sorrow  then,  to  happier  and  brighter   days." 

I  could  not  see  him  for  the  tears  which  his  earnestness 
and  goodness,  so  adorned  by,  and  so  adorning,  the  per- 
fect simplicity  of  his  manner,  brought  into  my  eyes.  He 
had  moved  to  the  door,  when  he  added  : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  have  shown  you  my  heart.  I  am  sure 
you  will  respect  it.  What  we  have  said  to-night  is  never 
to  be  said  more.  Wickfield,  give  me  an  old  friend's  arm 
up-stairs  !  " 

Mr.  Wickfield  hastened  to  him.  Without  interchanging 
a  word  they  went  slowly  out  of  the  room  together,  Uriah 
looking  after  them. 

"Well,  Master  Copperfield  ! "  said  Uriah,  meekly  turning 
to  me.  "The  thing  hasn't  took  quite  the  turn  that  might 
have  been  expected,  for  the  old  Scholar — what  an  excel- 
lent man  ! — is  as  blind  as  a  brickbat ;  but  this  family's  out 
^i  the  cart,  I  think!" 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


6'3 


I  needed  but  the  sound  of  his  voice  to  be  so  madly  en- 
raged as  I  never  was  before,  and  never  have  been  since. 

"  You  villain,"  said  I,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  entrapping 
me  into  your  schemes  ?  How  dare  you  appeal  to  me  just 
now,  you  false  rascal,  as  if  we  had  been  in  discussion  to- 
gether ?  " 

As  we  stood,  front  to  front,  I  saw  so  plainly,  in  the 
stealthy  exultation  of  his  face,  what  I  already  so  plainly 
knew  ;  I  mean  that  he  forced  his  confidence  upon  me,  ex- 
pressly to  make  me  miserable,  and  had  set  a  deliberate 
trap  for  me  in  this  very  matter ;  that  I  couldn't  bear  it. 
The  whole  of  his  lank  cheek  was  invitingly  before  me,  and 
I  struck  it  with  my  open  hand  with  that  force  that  my  fin- 
gers tingled  as  if  I  had  burnt  them. 

He  caught  the  hand  in  his,  and  we  stood,  in  that  con- 
nection, looking  at  each  other.  We  stood  so,  a  long  time; 
long  enough  for  me  to  see  the  white  marks  of  my  fingers 
die  out  of  the  deep  red  of  his  cheek,  and  leave  it  a  deeper 
red. 

"  Copperfield,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  breathless  voice, 
*'  have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  leave  of  you,"  said  I,  wresting  my  hand 
away.     ''  You  dog,  I'll  know  no  more  of  you." 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  said  he,  constrained  by  the  pain  of  his 
cheek  to  put  his  hand  there.  "  Perhaps  you  won't  be  able 
to  help  it.     Isn't  this  ungrateful  of  you,  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  shown  you  often  enough,"  said  I,  "  that  I 
despise  you.  I  have  shown  you  now,  more  plainly,  that  I 
do.  Why  should  I  dread  your  doing  your  worst  to  ail 
about  you  ?     What  else  do   you  ever  do  ?  " 

He  perfectly  understood  this  allusion  to  the  considera- 
tions that  had  hitherto  restrained  me  in  my  communications 
with  him.  I  rather  think  that  neither  the  blow,  nor  the  al- 
lusion, would  have  escaped  me,  but  for  the  assurance  I  had 
had  from  Agnes  that  night.     It  is  no  matter. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  His  eyes,  as  he  looked 
at  me,  seemed  to  take  every  shade  of  color  that  could  make 
eyes  ugly. 

"  Copperfield,"  he  said,  removing  his  hand  from  his 
cheek,  "  you  have  always  gone  against  me.  I  know  you  al- 
ways used  to  be  against  me  at  Mr.  Wickfield's." 

"  You  may  think  what  you  like,"  said  I,  still  in  a  towering 
rage.     "If  it  is  not  true,  so  much  the  worthier  you." 


6i4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"And  yet  I  always  liked  you,  Copperfield,"  he  rejoined. 

I  deigned  to  make  him  no  reply  ;  and,  taking  up  my 
hat,  was  going  out  to  bed,  when  he  came  between  me  and 
the  door. 

"  Copperfield,"  he  said,  "  there  must  be  two  parties  to  a 
quarrel.     I  won't  be  one." 

"  You  may  go  to  the  devil,"  said  I. 

"  Don't  say  that,"  he  replied.  "  I  know  you'll  be  sorry  af- 
terwards. How  can  you  make  yourself  so  inferior  to  me,  as 
to  show  such  a  bad  spirit  ?     But  I  forgive  you." 

*'You  forgive  me!"  I  repeated  disdainfully. 

"  I  do,  and  you  can't  help  yourself,"  replied  Uriah.  "  To 
think  of  your  going  and  attacking  me^  that  have  always 
been  a  friend  to  you!  But  there  can't  be  a  quarrel  with- 
out two  parties,  and  I  won't  be  one.  I  will  be  a  friend 
to  you,  in  spite  of  you.  So  now  you  know  what  you've 
got  to  expect." 

The  necessity  of  carrying  on  this  dialogue  (his  part  in 
which  was  very  slow;  mine  very  quick)  in  a  low  tone, 
that  the  house  might  not  be  disturbed  at  an  unseason- 
able hour,  did  not  improve  my  temper;  though  my  pas- 
sion was  cooling  down.  Merely  telling  him  I  should  ex- 
pect from  him  what  I  always  had  expected,  and  had 
never  yet  been  disappointed  in,  I  opened  the  door  upon 
him,  as  if  he  had  been  a  great  walnut  put  there  to  be 
cracked,  and  went  out  of  the  house.  But  he  slept  out  of 
the  house  too,  at  his  mother's  lodging;  and  before  I  had 
gone  many  hundred  yards,  came  up  with  me. 

"You  know,  Copperfield,"  he  said  in  my  ear,  (I  did  not 
turn  my  head),  "you're  in  quite  a  wrong  position;"  which 
I  felt  to  be  true,  and  that  made  me  chafe  the  more; 
"  you  can't  make  this  a  brave  thing,  and  you  can't  help 
being  forgiven.  I  don't  intend  to  mention  it  to  mother, 
nor  to  any  living  soul.  I'm  determined  to  forgive  you. 
But  I  do  wonder  that  you  should  lift  your  hand  against 
a  person  that  you  knew  to  be  so  umble!" 

I  felt  only  less  mean  than  he.  He  knew  me  better 
than  I  knew  myself.  If  he  had  retorted,  or  openly  exas- 
perated me,  it  would  have  been  a  relief  and  a  justifica- 
tion; but  he  had  put  me  on  a  slow  fire,  on  which  I  lay 
tormented  half  the  night. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  came  out,  the  early  church 
bell  was  ringing,  and  he  was  walking   up  and  down  with 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


6'S 


his  mother.  He  addressed  me  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  I  could  do  no  less  than  reply.  I  had  struck] 
him  hard  enough  to  give  him  the  toothache,  I  suppose. 
At  all  events  his  face  was  tied  up  in  a  black  silk  hand- 
kerchief, which,  with  his  hat  perched  on  the  top  of  it, 
was  far  from  improving  his  appearance.  I  heard  that  he 
went  to  a  dentist's  in  London  on  the  Monday  morning, 
and  had  a  tooth  out.     I  hope  it  was  a  double  one. 

The  Doctor  gave  out  that  he  was  not-  quite  well;  and 
remained  alone,  for  a  considerable  part  of  every  day,  during 
the  remainder  of  the  visit.  Agnes  and  her  father  had  been 
gone  a  week,  before  we  resumed  our  usual  work.  On  the 
day  preceding  its  resumption,  the  Doctor  gave  me  with  his 
own  hands  a  folded  note  not  sealed.  It  was  addressed  to 
myself;  and  laid  an  injunction  on  me,  in  a  few  affectionate 
words,  never  to  refer  to  the  subject  of  that  evening.  I  had 
confided  it  to  my  aunt,  but  to  no  one  else.  It  was  not  a 
subject  I  could  discuss  with  Agnes,  rnd  Agnes  certainly  had 
not  the  least  suspicion  of  what  had  passed. 

Neither,  I  felt  convinced,  had  Mrs.  Strong  then.  Several 
weeks  elapsed  before  I  saw  the  least  change  in  her.  It 
came  on  slowly,  like  a  cloud  when  there  is  no  wind.  At 
first,  she  seemed  to  wonder  at  the  gentle  compassion  with 
which  the  Doctor  spoke  to  her,  and  at  his  wish  that  she 
should  have  her  mother  with  her,  to  relieve  the  dull  monot- 
ony of  her  life.  Often  when  we  were  at  work,  and  she  was 
sitting  by,  I  would  see  her  pausing  and  looking  at  him  with 
that  memorable  face.  Afterwards,  I  sometimes  observed 
her  rise  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  go  out  of  the  room. 
Gradually,  an  unhappy  shadow  fell  upon  her  beauty,  and 
deepened  every  day.  Mrs.  Markleham  was  a  regular  inmate 
of  the  cottage  then;  but  she  talked  and  talked,  and  saw 
nothing. 

As  this  change  stole  on  Annie,  once  like  sunshine  in  the 
Doctor's  house,  the  Doctor  became  older  in  appearance, 
and  more  grave;  but  the  sweetness  of  his  temper,  the  placid 
kindness  of  his  manner,  and  his  benevolent  solicitude  for 
her,  if  they  were  capable  of  any  increase,  were  increased.  I 
saw  him  once,  early  on  the  morning  of  her  birthday,  when 
she  came  to  sit  in  the  window  while  we  were  at  work  (which 
she  had  always  done,  but  now  began  to  do  with  a  timid  and 
uncertain  air  that  I  thought  very  touching),  take  her  fore- 
head between  his  hands,  kiss  it,  and  go  hurriedly  away,  too 


6i5  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

much  moved  to  remain.  I  saw  her  stand  where  he  had  left 
her,  like  a  statue;  and  then  bend  down  her  head,  and  clasp 
her  hands,  and  weep,  I  cannot  say  how  sorrowfully. 

Sometimes,  after  that,  I  fancied  that  she  tried  to  speak 
even  to  me,  in  intervals  when  we  were  left  alone.  But  she 
never  uttered  a  word.  The  Doctor  always  had  some  new 
project  for  her  participating  in  amusements  away  from 
home,  with  her  mother  ;  and  Mrs.  Markleham,  who  was  very 
fond  of  amusements,  and  very  easily  dissatisfied  with  any- 
thing else,  entered  into  them  with  great  good  will,  and  was 
loud  in  her  commendations.  But  Annie,  in  a  spiritless,  un- 
happy way,  only  went  whither  she  was  led,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  care  for  any  thing. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Neither  did  my  aunt  ; 
who  must  have  walked,  at  various  times,  a  hundred  miles  in 
her  uncertainty.  What  was  strangest  of  all  was,  that  the 
only  real  relief  which  seemed  to  make  its  way  into  the  secret 
region  of  this  domestic  unhappiness,  made  its  way  there  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  Dick. 

What  his  thoughts  were  on  the  subject,  or  what  his  ob- 
servation was,  I  am  as  unable  to  explain,  as  I  dare  say  he 
would  have  been  to  assist  me  in  the  task.  But,  as  I  have 
recorded  in  the  narrative  of  my  school  days,  his  veneration 
for  the  Doctor  was  unbounded  ;  and  there  is  a  subtlety  of 
perception  in  real  attachment  even  when  it  is  borne  towards 
man  by  one  of  the  lower  animals,  which  leaves  the  highest 
intellect  behind.  To  this  mind  of  the  heart,  if  I  may  call 
it  so,  in  Mr.  Dick,  some  bright  ray  of  the  truth  shot 
straight. 

He  had  proudly  resumed  his  privilege,  in  many  of  his 
spare  hours,  of  walking  up  and  down  the  garden  with  the 
Doctor  ;  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  Doctor's  Walk  at  Canterbury,  But  matters  were  no 
sooner  in  this  state,  than  he  devoted  all  his  spare  time  (and 
got  up  earlier  to  make  it  more)  to  these  perambulations.  If 
he  had  never  been  so  happy  as  when  the  Doctor  read  that 
marvellous  performance,  the  Dictionary,  to  him  ;  he  was 
now  quite  miserable  unless  the  Doctor  pulled  it  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  began.  When  the  Doctor  and  1  were  engaged, 
he  now  fell  into  the  custom  of  walking  up  and  down  with 
Mrs.  Strong,  and  helping  her  to  trim  her  favorite  flowers,  or 
weed  the  beds.  I  dare  say  he  rarely  spoke  a  dozen  words 
in  an  hour  :   but  his  quiet  interest,  and   his  wistful  face, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


617 


found  immediate  response  in  both  their  breasts  ;  each  knew 
that  the  other  Hked  him,  and  that  he  loved  both  ;  and  he 
became  what  no  one  else  could  be — a  link  between  them. 

When  I  think  of  him,  with  his  impenetrably  wise  face, 
walking  up  and  down  with  the  Doctor,  delighted  to  be  bat- 
tered by  the  hard  words  in  the  Dictionary  ;  when  I  think  of 
him  carrying  huge  watering-pots  after  Annie;  kneeling  down, 
in  very  paws  of  gloves,  at  patient  microscopic  work  among 
the  little  leaves  ;  expressing  as  no  philosopher  could  have 
expressed,  in  every  thing  he  did,  a  delicate  desire  to  be  her 
friend;  showering  sympathy,  trustfulness  and  affection,  out  of 
every  hole  in  the  watering-pot ;  when  I  think  of  him  never 
wandering  in  that  better  mind  of  his  to  which  unhappiness 
addressed  itself,  never  bringing  the  unfortunate  Kin^ 
Charles  into  the  garden,  never  wavering  in  his  grateful  ser- 
vice, never  diverted  from  his  knowledge  that  there  was 
something  wrong,  or  from  his  wish  to  set  it  right — I  really 
feel  almost  ashamed  of  having  known  that  he  was  not  quite  in 
his  wits,  taking  account  of  the  utmost  I  have  done  with  mine. 

"  Nobody  but  myself.  Trot,  knows  what  that  man  is  !  " 
my  aunt  would  proudly  remark,  when  we  conversed  about 
it.     "  Dick  will  distinguish  himself  yet  !  " 

I  must  refer  to  one  other  topic  before  I  close  this  chap- 
ter. While  the  visit  at  the  Doctor's  was  still  in  progress,  I 
observed  that  the  postman  brought  two  or  three  letters 
every  morning  for  Uriah  Heep,  who  remained  at  Highgate 
until  the  rest  went  back,  it  being  a  leisure  time  ;  and  that 
these  were  always  directed  in  a  business-like  manner  by 
Mr.  Micawber,  who  now  assumed  a  round  legal  hand.  I 
w^as  glad  to  infer,  from  these  slight  premises,  that  Mr. 
Micawber  was  doing  well ;  and  consequently  was  much  sur- 
prised to  receive,  about  this  time,  the  following  letter  from 
his  amiable  wife. 

Canterbury,  Monday  evening. 
"  You  will  doubtless  ba  surprised,  my  dear  Mr. 
Copperfield,  to  receive  this  communication.  Still  more  so, 
by  its  contents.  Still  more  so,  by  the  stipulation  of  implicit 
confidence  which  I  beg  to  impose.  But  my  feelings  as  a 
wife  and  mother  require  relief ;  and  as  I  do  not  wish  to 
consult  my  family  (already  obnoxious  to  the  feelings  of 
Mr.  Micawber),  I  know  no  one  of  whom  I  can  better  ask 
advice  than  my  friend  and  my  former  lodger. 

"  You  may  be  aware,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  be- 


6i8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

tween  myself  and  Mr.  Micawber  (whom  I  will  never  desert), 
there  has  always  been  preserved  a  spirit  of  mutual  confi- 
dence. Mr.  Micawber  may  have  occasionally  given  a  bill 
without  consulting  me,  or  he  may  have  misled  me  as  to  the 
period  when  that  obligation  would  become  due.  This  has 
actually  happened.  But,  in  general,  Mr.  Micawber  has  had 
no  secrets  from  the  bosom  of  affection — I  allude  to  his  wife 
" — and  has  invariably,  on  our  retirement  to  rest,  recalled  the 
events  of  the  day. 

"  You  will  picture  to  yourself,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield, 
what  the  poignancy  of  my  feelings  must  be,  when  I  inform 
you  that  Mr.  Micawber  is  entirely  changed.  He  is  reserved. 
He  is  secret.  His  life  is  a  mystery  to  the  partner  of  his 
joys  and  sorrows — I  again  allude  to  his  wife — and  if  I 
should  assure  you  that  beyond  knowing  that  it  is  passed 
from  morning  to  night  at  the  office,  I  now  know  less  of  it 
than  I  do  of  the  man  in  the  south,  connected  with  whose 
mouth  the  thoughtless  children  repeat  an  idle  tale  respect- 
ing cold  plum  porridge,  I  should  adopt  a  popular  fallacy  to 
express  an  actual  fact. 

"But  this  is  not  all.  Mr.  Micawber  is  morose.  He  is 
severe.  He  is  estranged  from  our  eldest  son  and  daughter, 
he  has  no  pride  in  his  twins,  he  looks  with  an  eye  of  cold- 
ness even  on  the  unoffending  stranger  who  last  became  a 
member  of  our  circle.  The  pecuniary  means  of  meeting 
our  expenses,  kept  down  to  the  utmost  farthing,  are  obtained 
from  him  with  great  difficulty,  and  even  under  fearful  threats 
that  he  will  Settle  himself  (the  exact  expression);  and  he 
inexorably  refuses  to  give  any  explanation  whatever  of  this 
distracting  policy. 

"  This  is  hard  to  bear.  This  is  heart-breaking.  If  you 
•will  advise  me,  knowing  my  feeble  powers  such  as  they  are, 
how  you  think  it  will  be  best  to  exert  them  in  a  dilemma  so 
unwonted,  you  will  add  another  friendly  obligation  to  the 
many  you  have  already  rendered  me.  With  loves  from  the 
children,  and  a  smile  from  the  happily  unconscious  stranger, 
I  remain,  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,     "  Your  afflicted 

"  Emma  Micawber." 

I  did  not  feel  justified  in  giving  a  wife  of  Mrs.  Micawber's 
experience  any  other  recommendation,  than  that  she  should 
try  to  reclaim  Mr.  Micawber  by  patience  and  kindness  (as  I 
knew  she  would  in  any  case),  but  the  letter  set  me  thinking 
about  him  very  much. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  619 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

ANOTHER    RETROSPECT. 

Once  again  let  me  pause  upon  a  memorable  period  of  my 
life.  Let  me  stand  aside  to  see  the  phantoms  of  those  days 
go  by  me,  accompanying  the  shadow  of  myself,  in  dim  pro- 
cession. 

Weeks,  months,  seasons  pass  along.  They  seem  little 
more  than  a  summer  day  and  a  winter  evening.  Now,  the 
Common  where  I  walk  with  Dora  is  all  in  bloom,  a  field  of 
bright  gold  ;  and  now  the  unseen  heather  lies  in  mounds 
and  bunches  underneath  a  covering  of  snow.  In  a  breath, 
the  river  that  flows  through  our  Sunday  walks  is  sparkling  in 
the  summer  sun,  is  ruffled  by  the  winter  wind,  or  thickened 
with  drifting  heaps  of  ice.  Faster  than  ever  river  ran  to- 
wards the  sea,  it  flashes,  darkens,  and  rolls  away. 

Not  a  thread  changes,  in  the  house  of  the  two  little  bird- 
like ladies.  The  clock  ticks  over  the  fire-place,the  weather- 
glass hangs  in  the  hall.  Neither  clock  nor  weather-glass  is 
ever  right;  but  we  believe  in  both,  devoutly. 

I  have  come  legally  to  man's  estate.  I  have  attained  the 
dignity  of  twenty-one.  But  this  is  a  sort  of  dignity  that 
may  be  thrust  upon  one.  Let  me  think  of  what  I  have 
achieved. 

I  have  tamed  that  savage  stenographic  mystery.  I  make 
a  respectable  income  by  it.  I  am  in  high  repute  for  my 
accomplishment  in  all  pertaining  to  the  art,  and  I  am 
joined  with  eleven  others  in  reporting  the  debates  in  Parlia- 
ment for  a  Morning  Newspaper.  Night  after  night,  I  record 
predictions  that  never  come  to  pass,  professions  that  are 
never  fulfilled,  explanations  that  are  only  meant  to  mystify. 
I  wallow  in  words.  Britannia,  that  unfortunate  female,  is 
always  before  me,  like  a  trussed  fowl :  skewered  through 
and  through  with  office-pens,  and  bound  hand  and  foot  with 
red  tape.  I  am  sufficiently  behind  the  scenes  to  know  the 
worth  of  political  life.  I  am  quite  an  Infidel  about  it,  and 
shall  never  be  converted. 

My  dear  old  Traddles  has  tried  his  hand  at  the  same  pur- 
suit, but  it  is  not  in  Traddles's  way.  He  is  perfectly  good- 
humored  respecting  his  failure,  and  reminds  me  that  he 
always  did  consider  himself  slow.     He  has  occasional  em- 


620  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ployment  on  the  same  newspaper,  in  getting  up  the  facts  of 
dry  subjects,  to  be  written  about  and  embellished  by  more 
fertile  minds.  He  is  called  to  the  bar;  and  with  admirable 
industry  and  self  denial  has  scraped  another  hundred  pounds 
together,  to  fee  a  conveyancer  whose  chambers  he  attends. 
A  great  deal  of  very  hot  port  wine  was  consumed  at  his 
call;  and,  considering  the  figure,  I  should  think  the  Inner 
Temple  must  have  made  a  profit  by  it. 

I  have  come  out  in  another  way.  I  have  taken  with  fear 
and  trembling  to  authorship.  I  wrote  a  little  something  in 
secret,  and  sent  it  to  a  magazine,  and  it  was  published  in 
the  magazine.  Since  then,  I  have  taken  heart  to  write  a 
good  many  trifling  pieces.  Now  I  am  regularly  paid  for 
them.  Altogether,  I  am  well  off;  when  I  tell  my  income  on 
the  fingers  of  my  left  hand,  I  pass  the  third  finger  and  take 
in  the  fourth  to  the  middle  joint. 

We  have  removed,  from  Buckingham  Street,  to  a  pleasant 
little  cottage  very  near  the  one  I  looked  at,  when  my  enthu- 
siasm first  came  on.  My  aunt,  however  (who  has  sold  the 
house  at  Dover,  to  good  advantage),  is  nof  going  to  remain 
here,  but  intends  removing  herself  to  a  still  more  tiny  cot- 
tage close  at  hand.  What  does  this  portend  ?  My  mar- 
riage ?    Yes! 

Yes!  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  Dora!  Miss  Lavinia 
and  Miss  Clarissa  have  given  their  consent;  and  if  ever  cana- 
ry birds  were  in  a  flutter,  they  are.  Miss  Lavinia,  self- 
charged  with  the  superintendence  of  my  darling's  wardrobe, 
is  constantly  cutting  out  brown-paper  cuirasses,  and  differ- 
ing in  opinion  from  a  highly  respectable  young  man,  with  a 
long  bundle,  and  a  yard  measure  under  his  arm.  A  dress- 
maker, always  stabbed  in  the  breast  with  a  needle  and 
thread,  boards  and  lodges  in  the  house;  and  seems  to  me, 
eating,  drinking,  or  sleeping,  never  to  take  her  thimble  off. 
They  make  a  lay-figure  of  my  dear.  They  are  always  send- 
ing for  her  to  come  and  try  something  on.  We  can't  be 
happy  together  for  five  minutes  in  the  evening,  but  some  in- 
trusive female  knocks  at  the  door,  and  says,  "  Oh,  if  you 
please,  Miss  Dora,  would  you  step  up-stairs  ?" 

Miss  Clarissa  and  my  aunt  roam  all  over  London,  to  find 
out  articles  of  furniture  for  Dora  and  me  to  look  at.  It 
would  be  better  for  them  to  buy  the  goods  at  once,  without 
this  ceremony  of  inspection;  for,  when  we  go  to  see  a  kit- 
chen fender  and  meat  screen  Dora  sees  a  Chinese  house  for 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  621 

Jip,  with  little  bells  on  the  top,  and  prefers  tl-at.  And  it 
takes  a  long  time  to  accustom  Jip  to  his  new  residence,  after 
we  have  bought  it;  whenever  he  goes  in  or  out,  he  makes  all 
the  little  bells  ring,  and  is  horribly  frightened. 

Peggotty  comes  up  to  make  herself  useful,  and  falls  to 
work  immediately.  Her  department  appears  to  be,  to  clean 
everything  over  and  over  again.  She  rubs  everything  that 
can  be  rubbed,  until  it  shines,  like  her  own  honest  forehead, 
with  perpetual  friction.  And  now  it  is,  that  I  begin  to  see 
her  solitary  brother  passing  through  the  dark  streets  at  night, 
and  looking,  as  he  goes,  among  the  wandering  faces.  I 
never  speak  to  him  at  such  an  hour.  I  know  too  well,  as  his 
grave  figure  passes  onward,  what  he  seeks,and  what  he  dreads. 

Why  does  Traddles  look  so  important  when  he  calls  upon 
me  this  afternoon  in  the  Commons^where  I  still  occasion- 
ally attend,  for  form's  sake,  when  I  have  time  ?  The  real- 
ization of  my  boyish  day-dreams  is  at  hand.  I  am  going  to 
take  out  the  license. 

It  is  a  little  document  to  do  so  much;  and  Traddles  con- 
templates it,  as  it  lies  ,upon  my  desk,  half  in  admiration, 
half  in  awe.  There  are  the  names,  in  the  sweet  old  vision- 
ary connexion,  David  Copperfield  and  Dora  Spenlow;  and 
there,  in  the  corner,  is  that  Parental  Institution,  the  Stamp 
Office,  which  is  so  benignantly  interested  in  the  various 
transactions  of  human  life,  looking  down  upon  our  Union; 
and  there  is  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  invoking  a  bless- 
ing on  us  in  print,  and  doing  it  as  cheap  as  could  possibly 
be  expected. 

Nevertheless,  I  am  in  a  dream,  a  flustered,  happy,  hurried 
dream.  I  can't  believe  that  it  is  going  to  be;  and  yet  I  can't 
believe  but  that  every  one  I  pass  in  the  street,  must  have 
some  kind  of  perception,  that  I  am  to  be  married  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  The  Surrogate  knows  me,  when  I  go  down 
to  be  sworn;  and  disposes  of  me  easily,  as  if  there  were  a 
Masonic  understanding  between  us.  Traddles  is  not  at  all 
wanted,  but  is  in  attendance  as  my  general  backer. 

"  I  hope  the  next  time  you  come  here,  my  dear  fellow," 
I  say  to  Traddles,  *'  it  will  be  on  the  same  errand  for  your- 
self.    And  I  hope  it  will  be  soon." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes,  my  dear  Copperfield," 
he  replies.  "  I  hope  so  too.  It's  a  satisfaction  to  know 
that  she'll  wait  for  me  any  length  of  time,  and  that  she 
really  is  the  dearest  girl — " 


622  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  When  are  you  to  meet  her  at  the  coach?"  I  ask. 

"  At  seven,"  says  Traddles,  looking  at  his  plain  old  silver 
watch — the  very  watch  he  once  took  a  wheel  out  of,  at 
school,  to  make  a  water-mill.  "  That  is  about  Miss  Wick- 
field's  time,  is  it  not?" 

"  A  little  earlier.     Her  time  is  half  past-eight." 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear  boy,"  says  Traddles,  "  I  am  al- 
most as  pleased  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  married  myself,  te 
think  that  this  event  is  coming  to  such  a  happy  termination. 
And  really  the  great  friendship  and  consideration  of  person- 
ally associating  Sophy  with  the  joyful  occasion,  and  invit- 
ing her  to  be  a  bridesmaid  in  conjunction  with  Miss  Wick- 
field,  demands  my  warmest  thanks.  I  am  extremely  sensi- 
ble of  it." 

I  hear  him,  and  shake  hands  with  him;  and  we  talk,  and 
walk,  and  dine,  and  so  on;  but  I  don't  believe  it.  Nothing 
is  real. 

Sophy  arrives  at  the  house  of  Dora's  aunt^,  in  due  course. 
She  has  the  most  agreeable  of  faces, — not  absolutely  beauti- 
ful, but  extraordinarily  pleasant, — and  is  one  of  the  most 
genial,  unaffected,  frank,  engaging  creatures  I  have  ever 
seen.  Traddles  presents  her  to  us  with  great  pride;  and 
rubs  his  hands  for  ten  minutes  by  the  clock,  with  every  in- 
dividual hair  upon  his  head  standing  on  tiptoe,  when  I  con- 
gratulate him  in  a  corner  on  his  choice. 

I  have  brought  Agnes  from  the  Canterbury  coach,  and 
her  cheerful  and  beautiful  face  is  among  us  for  the  second 
time.  Agnes  has  a  great  liking  for  Traddles,  and  it  is  capi- 
tal to  see  them  meet,  and  to  observe  the  glory  of  Traddles 
as  he  commends  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world  to  her  ac- 
quaintance. 

Still  I  don*t  believe  it.  We  have  a  delightful  evening,  and 
are  supremely  happy;  but  I  don't  believe  it  yet.  I  can't 
collect  myself.  I  can't  check  off  my  happiness  as  it  takes 
place.  I  feel  in  a  misty  and  unsettled  kind  of  state;  as  if 
I  had  got  up  very  early  in  the  morning  a  week  or  two  ago, 
and  had  never  been  to  bed  since.  I  can't  make  out  when 
yesterday  was.  I  seem  to  have  been  carrying  the  license 
about,  in  my  pocket,  many  months. 

Next  day,  too,  when  we  all  go  in  a  flock  to  see  the  house 
— our  house — Dora's  and  mine — I  am  quite  unable  to  re- 
gard myself  as  its  master.  I  seem  to  be  there,  by  permis- 
^ipn  of  somebody  else.     I  half  expect  the  real  master  to 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  ^^3 

come  home  presently,  and  say  he  is  glad  to  see  me.  Such  a 
beautiful  little  house  as  it  is,  with  everything  so  bright  and 
new;  with  the  flowers  on  the  carpets  looking  as  if  freshly 
gathered,  and  the  green  leaves  on  the  paper  as  if  they  had 
just  come  out;  with  the  spotless  muslin  curtains,  and  the 
blushing  rose-colored  furniture,  and  Dora's  garden  hat  with 
the  blue  ribbon — do  I  remember,  now,  how  I  loved  her  in 
such  another  hat  when  I  first  knew  her? — already  hanging 
on  its  little  peg;  the  guitar-case  quite  at  home  on  its  heels  in  a 
corner;  and  everybody  tumbling  over  Jip's  Pagoda,  which 
is  much  too  big  for  the  establishment. 

Another  happy  evening,  quite  as  unreal  as  all  the  rest  of 
it,  and  I  steal  into  the  usual  room  before  going  away.  Dora 
is  not  there.  I  suppose  they  have  not  done  trying  on  yet. 
Miss  Lavinia  peeps  in,  and  tells  me  mysteriously  that  she 
will  not  be  long.  She  is  rather  long,  notwithstanding;  but 
by-and-by  I  hear  a  rustling  at   the  door,  and  some  one  taps. 

I  say,  "  Come  in!"  but  some  one  taps  again. 

I  go  to  the  door,  wondering  who  it  is;  there,  I  meet  a  pair 
of  bright  eyes,  and  a  blushing  face;  they  are  Dora's  eyes 
and  face,  and  Miss  Lavinia  has  dressed  her  in  to-morrow's 
dress,  bonnet  and  all,  for  me  to  see.  I  take  my  little  wife 
to  my  heart;  and  Miss  Lavinia  .gives  a  little  scream  because 
I  tumble  the  bonnet,  and  Dora  laughs  and  cries  at  once, 
because  I  am  so  pleased;  and  I  believe  it  less  than  ever. 

"  Do  you  think  it  pretty,  Doady?"  says  Dora. 

Pretty!     I  should  rather  think  I  did. 

"  And  are  you  sure  you  like  me  very  much?"  says  Dora. 

The  topic  is  fraught  with  such  danger  to  the  bonnet,  that 
Miss  Lavinia  gives  another  little  scream,  and  begs  me  to  un- 
derstand that  Dora  is  only  to  be  looked  at,  and  on  no  ac- 
count to  be  touched.  So  Dora  stands  in  a  delightful  state 
of  confusion  for  a  minute  or  two,  to  be  admired,  and  then 
takes  off  her  bonnet — looking  so  natural  without  it! — and 
runs  away  with  it  in  her  hand;  and  comes  dancing  down 
again  in  her  own  familiar  dress,  and  asks  Jip  if  I  have  got  a 
beautiful  little  wife,  and  whether  he'll  forgive  her  for  being 
married,  and  kneels  down  to  make  him  stand  upon  the  cook- 
ery-book, for  the  last  time  in  her  single  life. 

I  go  home,  more  incredulous  than  ever,  to  a  lodging  that 
I  have  hard  by  ;  and  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  to 
ride  to  the  Highgate  road  and  fetch  my  aunt. 

I  have  never  seen  my  aunt  in  such  state.     She  is  dressed 


624  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  lavender-colored  silk,  and  has  a  white  bonnet  on,  and  is 
amazing.  Janet  has  dressed  her,  and  is  there  to  look  at 
me.  Peggotty  is  ready  to  go  to  church,  intending  to  behold 
the  ceremony  from  the  gallery.  Mr.  Dick,  who  is  to  give 
my  darling  to  me  at  the  altar,  has  had  his  hair  curled. 
Traddles,  whom  I  have  taken  up  by  appointment  at  the 
turnpike,  presents  a  dazzling  combination  of  cream  color 
and  light  blue;  and  both  he  and  Mr.  Dick  have  a  general 
effect  about  them  of  being  all  gloves. 

No  doubt  I  see  this,  because  I  know  it  is  so  ;  but  I  am 
astray,  and  seem  to  see  nothing.  Nor  do  I  believe  any- 
thing whatever.  Still,  as  we  drive  along  in  an  open  car- 
riage, this  fairy  marriage  is  real  enough  to  fill  me  with  a 
sort  of  wondering  pity  for  the  unfortunate  people  who  have 
no  part  in  it,  but  are  sweeping  out  the  shops,  and  going  to 
their  daily  occupations. 

My  aunt  sits  with  my  hand  in  hers  all  the  way.  When 
we  stop  a  little  way  short  of  the  church  to  put  down  Peg- 
gotty, whom  we  have  brought  on  the  box,  she  gives  it  a 
squeeze,  and  me  a  kiss. 

"  God  bless  you,  Trot!  My  own  boy  never  could  be 
dearer.     I  think  of  poor  dear  Baby  this  morning." 

"  So  do  I.     And  of  all  I  owe  to  you,  dear  aunt." 

"  Tut,  child  !  "  says  my  aunt ;  and  gives  her  hand  in  over- 
flowing cordiality  to  Traddles,  who  then  gives  his  to  Mr. 
Dick,  who  then  gives  his  to  me,  who  then  gives  mine  to 
Traddles,  and  then  we  come  to  the  church  door. 

The  church  is  calm  enough,  I  am  sure  ;  but  it  might  be 
a  steam-power  loom  in  full  action,  for  any  sedative  effect  it 
has  on  me.     I  am  too  far  gone  for  that. 

The  rest  is  all  a  more  or  less  incoherent  dream. 

A  dream  of  their  coming  in  with  Dora;  of  the  pew-opener 
arranging  us,  like  a  drill  sergeant,  before  the  altar  rails  ;  of 
my  wondering,  even  then,  why  pew-openers  must  always  be 
the  most  disagreeable  females  procurable,  and  whether  there 
is  any  religious  dread  of  a  disastrous  infection  of  good  hu- 
mor which  renders  it  indispensable  to  set  those  vessels  of 
vinegar  upon  the  road  to  Heaven. 

Of  the  clergyman  and  clerk  appearing,  of  a  few  boatmen 
and  some  other  people  strolling  in  ;  of  an  ancient  mariner  be- 
hind me,  strongly  scenting  the  church  with  rum  ;  of  the 
service  beginning  in  a  deep  voice,  and  our  all  being  very 
attentive. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  625 

Of  Miss  Lavinia,  who  acts  as  a  semi-auxiliary  bridesmaid, 
being  the  first  to  cry,  and  of  her  doing  homage  (as  I  taks 
it)  to  the  memory  of  Pidger  in  sobs  ;  of  Miss  Clarissa  ap- 
plying a  smelling  bottle  ;  of  Agnes  taking  care  of  Dora  ;  of 
my  aunt  endeavoring  to  represent  herself  as  a  model  of 
sternness,  with  tears  rolling  down  her  face  ;  of  little  Dora 
trembhng  very  much,  and  making  her  responses  in  faint 
whispers. 

Of  our  kneeling  down  together,  side  by  side  ;  of  Dora's 
trembling  less  and  less,  but  always  clasping  Agnes  by  the 
hand  ;  of  the  service  being  got  through,  quietly  and  gravely  ; 
of  our  all  looking  at  each  other  in  an  April  state  of  smiles 
and  tears,  when  it  is  over  ;  of  my  young  wife  being  hyster- 
ical in  the  vestry,  and  crying  for  her  poor  papa,  her  dear 
papa. 

Of  her  soon  cheering  up  again,  and  our  signing  the  reg- 
ister all  round.  Of  my  going  into  the  gallery  for  Peggotty  to 
bring  her  to  sign  it  ;  of  Peggotty's  hugging  me  in  a  corner, 
and  telling  me  she  saw  my  own  dear  mother  married  ;  of 
its  being  over,  and  our  going  away. 

Of  my  walking  so  proudly  and  lovingly  down  the  aisle 
with  my  sweet  wife  upon  my  arm,  through  a  mist  of  half- 
seen  people,  pulpits,  monuments,  pews,  fonts,  organs  and 
church  windows,  in  which  there  flutter  faint  airs  of  associa- 
tion with  my  childish  church  at  home,  so  long  ago. 

Of  their  whispering,  as  we  pass,  what  a  youthful  couple 
we  are,  and  what  a  pretty  little  wife  she  is.  Of  our  all  be- 
ing so  merry  and  talkative  in  the  carriage  going  back.  Of 
Sophy  telling  us  that  when  she  sawTraddles  (whom  I  had 
entrusted  with  the  license)  asked  for  it,  she  almost  fainted, 
having  been  convinced  that  he  would  contrive  to  lose  it,  or 
to  have  his  pocket  picked.  Of  Agnes  laughing  gayly  ;  and 
of  Dora  being  so  fond  of  Agnes  that  she  will  not  be  sepa- 
rated from  her,  but  still  keeps  her  hand. 

Of  there  being  a  breakfast,  with  abundance  of  things, 
pretty  and  substantial,  to  eat  and  drink,  whereof  I  partake, 
as  I  should  do  in  any  other  dream,  without  the  least  percep- 
tion of  their  flavor;  eating  and  drinking,  as  I  may  say,  noth- 
ing but  love  and  marriage,  and  no  more  beHeving  in  the 
viands  than  in   anything  else. 

Of  my  making  a  speech  in  the  same  dreamy  fashion, 
without  having  an  idea  of  what  I  want  to  say,  beyond  such 
as  may  be  comprehended  in  th?  f  uU  conviction  tl^^t  I  haven't 


b26  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

said  it.  Of  our  being  very  sociably  and  simply  happy 
(always  in  a  dream  though);  and  of  Jip's  having  wedding 
cake,  and  it's  not  agreeing  with  him  afterwards. 

Of  the  pair  of  hired  post-horses  being  ready,  and  of  Dora's 
going  away  to  change  her  dress.  Of  my  aunt  and  Miss 
Clarissa  remaining  with  us;  and  our  walking  in  the  garden; 
and  my  aunt,  who  has  made  quite  a  speech  at  breakfast 
touching  Dora's  aunts,  being  mightily  amused  with  herself, 
but  a  little  proud  of  it  too. 

Of  Dora's  being  ready,  and  of  Miss  Lavinia's  hovering 
about  her,  loth  to  lose  the  pretty  toy  that  has  given  her  so 
much  pleasant  occupation.  Of  Dora's  making  a  long  series 
of  surprised  discoveries  that  she  has  forgotten  all  sorts  of 
little  things;  and  of  everybody's  running  everywhere  to  fetch 
them. 

Of  their  all  closing  about  Dora,  when  at  last  she  begins  to 
say  good-by  looking,  with  their  bright  colors  and  ribbons, 
like  a  bed  of  flowers.  Of  my  darling  being  almost  smothered 
among  the  flowers,  and  coming  out,  laughing  and  crying 
both  together,  to  my  jealous  arms. 

Of  my  wanting  to  carry  Jip  (who  is  to  go  along  with  us), 
and  Dora's  saying  no,  that  she  must  carry  him,  or  else  he'll 
think  she  don't  like  him  any  more,  now  she  is  married,  and 
will  break  his  heart.  Of  our  going  arm  in  arm,  and  Dora 
stopping  and  looking  back,  and  saying,  "  If  I  have  ever 
been  cross  or  ungrateful  to  any  body,  don't  remember  it  !" 
and  bursting  into  tears. 

Of  her  waving  her  little  hand,  and  our  going  away  once 
more.  Of  her  once  more  stopping,  and  looking  back,  and 
hurrying  to  Agnes,  and  giving  Agnes,  above  all  the  others, 
her  last  kisses  and  farewells. 

We  drive  away  together,  and  I  awake  from  the  dream. 
I  believe  it  at  last.  It  is  my  dear,  dear,  little  wife  beside 
me,  whom  I  love  so  well ! 

"  Are  you  happy  now,  you  foolish  boy  ?"  says  Dora, 
"and  sure  you  don't  repent  ?" 

I  have  stood  aside  to  see  the  phantoms  of  those  days  go 
by  me.  They  are  gone,  and  I  resume  the  journey  of  my 
story. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  627 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

OUR    HOUSEKEEPING. 

It  was  a  strange  condition  of  things,  the  honey-moon  be- 
ing over,  and  the  bridesmaids  gone  home,  when  I  found  my- 
self sitting  down  in  my  own  small  house  with  Dora;  quite 
thrown  out  of  employment,  as  I  may  say,  in  respect  of  the 
delicious  old  occupation  of  making  love. 

It  seemed  such  an  extraordinary  thing  to  have  Dora  al- 
ways there.  It  was  so  unaccountable  not  to  be  obliged  to 
go  out  to  see  her,  not  to  have  any  occasion  to  be  torment- 
ing myself  about  her,  not  to  have  to  write  to  her,  not  to  be 
scheming  and  devising  opportunities  of  being  alone  with 
her.  Sometimes  of  an  evening,  when  I  looked  up  from  my 
writing,  and  saw  her  seated  opposite,  I  would  lean  back  in 
my  chair,  and  think  how  queer  it  was  that  there  we  were, 
alone  together  as  a  matter  of  course-^-nobody's  business  any 
more — all  the  romance  of  our  engagement  put  away  upon  a 
shelf,  to  rust — no  one  to  please  but  one  another — one  an- 
other to  please,  for  life. 

When  there  was  a  debate,  and  I  was  kept  out  very  late,  it 
seemed  so  strange  to  me,  as  I  was  walking  home,  to  think  that 
Dora  was  at  home!  It  was  such  a  wonderful  thing,  at  first, 
to  have  her  coming  softly  down  to  talk  to  me  as  I  ate  my  sup- 
per. It  was  such  a  stupendous  thing  to  know  for  certain 
that  she  put  her  hair  in  papers.  It  was  altogether  such  an 
astonishing  event  to  see  her  do  it! 

I  doubt  whether  two  young  birds  could  have  known  less 
about  keeping  house,  than  I  and  my  pretty  Dora  did.  We 
had  a  servant,  of  course.  She  kept  house  for  us.  I  have 
still  a  latent  belief  that  she  must  have  been  Mrs.  Crupp's 
daughter  in  disguise,  we  had  such  an  awful  time  of  it  with 
Mary  Anne. 

Her  name  was  Paragon.  Her  nature  was  represented  to 
us,  when  we  engaged  her,  as  being  feebly  expressed  in  her 
name.  She  had  a  written  character,  as  large  as  a  proclama- 
tion; and,  according  to  this  document,  could  do  everything 
of  a  domestic  nature  that  ever  I  heard  of,  and  a  great  many 
things  that  I  never  did  hear  of.  She  was  a  woman  in  the 
prime  of  life;  of  a  severe  countenance;  and  subject  (partic- 
ularly in   the   arms')  to  a  sort  of  perpetual  measles  or  fiery 


028  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

rash.  She  had  a  cousin  in  the  Life  Guards,  with  such  long 
legs  that  he  looked  like  the  afternoon  shadow  of  somebody 
else.  His  shell-jacket  was  as  much  too  little  for  him  as  he 
was  too  big  for  the  premises.  He  made  the  cottage  smaller 
than  it  need  have  been,  by  being  so  very  much  out  of  pro- 
portion to  it.  Besides  which,  the  walls  were  not  thick,  and 
whenever  he  passed  the  evening  at  our  house,  we  al- 
ways knew  of  it  by  hearing  one  continual  growl  in  the 
kitchen. 

Our  treasure  was  warranted  sober  and  honest.  I  am 
therefore  willing  to  believe  that  she  was  in  a  fit  when  we 
found  her  under  the  boiler;  and  that  the  deficient  teaspoons 
were  attributable  to  the  dustman. 

But  she  preyed  upon  our  minds  dreadfully.  We  felt  our 
inexperience,  and  were  unable  to  help  ourselves.  We  should 
have  been  at  her  mercy,  if  she  had  any;  but  she  was  a  re- 
morseless woman,  and  had  none.  She  was  the  cause  of  our 
first  little  quarrel. 

"  My  dearest  life,"  I  said  one  day  to  Dora,  "  do  you  think 
Mary  Anne  has  any  idea  of  time  ?" 

"  Why,  Doady  ?"  inquired  Dora,  looking  up,  innocently, 
from  her  drawing. 

''  My  love,  because  it's  five,  and  we  were  to  have  dined  at 
four." 

Dora  glanced  wistfully  at  the  clock,  and  hinted  that  she 
thought  it  was  too  fast. 

*'  On  the  contrary,  my  love,"  said  I,  referring  to  my  watch, 
"  it's  a  few  minutes  too  slow." 

My  little  wife  came  and  sat  upon  my  knee,  to  coax  me  to 
be  quiet,  and  drew  a  line  with  her  pencil  down  the  middle 
of  my  nose;  but  I  couldn't  dine  off  that,  though  it  was  very 
agreeable. 

"Don't  you  think,  my  dear,"  said  I,  *St  would  be  better 
for  you  to  remonstrate  with  Mary  Anne  ?" 

"Oh  no,  please!     I  couldn't,  Doady!"  said  Dora. 

"  Why  not,  my  love  ?"  I  gently  asked. 

"Oh,  because  I  am  such  a  little  goose,"  said  Dora,  "and 
she  knows  I  am!" 

I  thought  this  sentiment  so  incompatible  with  the  estab- 
lishment of  any  system  of  check  on  Mary  Anne,  that  I 
frowned  a  little. 

"  Oh,  what  ugly  wrinkles  in  my  bad  boy's  forehead  !  " 
said  Dora,  and  still  being  on  my  knee,  she  traced  them  with 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  629 

her  pencil;  putting  it  to  her  rosy  lips  to  make  it  mark 
blacker,  and  working  at  my  forehead  with  a  quaint  little 
mockery  of  being  industrious,  that  quite  delighted  me  in 
spite  of  myself. 

"  There's  a  good  child,"  said  Dora,  "  it  makes  its  face  so 
much  prettier  to  laugh." 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  I. 

"  No,  no  !  please  !  "  cried  Dora,  with  a  kiss,  "  don't  be  a 
naughty  Blue  Beard  !     Don't  be  serious  !  " 

"  My  precious  wife,"  said  1,  ''  we  must  be  serious  some- 
times. Come  !  Sit  down  on  this  chair,  close  beside  me  ! 
Give  me  the  pencil  1  There  !  Now  let  us  talk  sensibly. 
You  know,  dear  ;  "  what  a  little  hand  it  was  to  hold,  and 
what  a  tiny  wedding  ring  it  was  to  see  !  "  You  know,  my 
love,  it  is  not  exactly  comfortable  to  have  to  go  out  without 
one's  dinner.     Now,  is  it  ?  " 

"  N — n — no  !  "  replied  Dora,  faintly. 

"  My  love,  how  you  tremble  !  " 

"  Because  I  know  you're  going  to  scold  me,"  exclaimed 
Dora,  in  a  piteous  voice. 

"  My  sweet,  I  am  only  going  to  reason." 

"  Oh,  but  reasoning  is  worse  than  scolding  !  "  exclaimed 
Dora,  in  despair.  "  I  didn't  marry  to  be  reasoned  with.  If 
you  meant  to  reason  with  such  a  poor  little  thing  as  I  am, 
you  ought  to  have  told  me  so,  you  cruel  boy  !  " 

I  tried  to  pacify  Dora,  but  she  turned  away  her  face,  and 
shook  her  curls  from  side  to  side,  and  said  "  You  cruel, 
cruel  boy  !  "  so  many  times,  that  I  really  did  not  exactly 
know  what  to  do  ;  so  I  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the 
room  in  my  uncertainty,  and  came  back  again. 

"  Dora,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  your  darling.  Because  you  must  be  sorry 
that  you  married  me,  or  else  you  wouldn't  reason  with 
me  !  "  returned  Dora. 

I  felt  so  injured  by  the  inconsequential  nature  of  this 
charge,  that  it  gave  me  courage  to  be  grave. 

*'  Now,  my  own  Dora,"  said.  I,  *'  you  are  very  childish,  and 
are  talking  nonsense.  You  must  remember,  I  am  sure,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  go  out  yesterday  when  dinner  was  half 
over  ;  and  that,  the  day  before,  I  was  made  quite  unwell 
by  being  obHged  to  eat  underdone  veal  in  a  hurry  ;  to-day, 
I  don't  dine  at  all — and  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  long  we 
waited  for  breakfast — and   then  the  water  didn't  boil.      I 


630  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

don't  mean  to  reproach  you,  my  dear,  but  this  is  not  com- 
fortable." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel,  cruel  boy,  to  say  I  am  a  disagreeable 
wife  !  "  cried  Dora. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Dora,  you  must  know  that  I  never  said 
that !  " 

"  You  said  I  wasn't  comfortable  !  "  said  Dora. 

*'  I  said  the  housekeeping  was  not  comfortable." 

"  It's  exactly  the  same  thing  !  "  cried  Dora.  And  she  evi- 
dently thought  so,  for  she  wept  most  grievously. 

I  took  another  turn  across  the  room,  full  of  love  for  my 
pretty  wife,  and  distracted  by  self-accusatory  inclinations 
to  knock  my  head  against  the  door.  I  sat  down  again  and 
said  : 

"  I  am  not  blaming  you,  Dora.  We  have  both  a  great 
deal  to  learn.  I  am  only  trying  to  show  you,  my  dear,  that 
you  must — you  really  must  "  (I  was  resolved  not  to  give 
this  up) — "accustom  yourself  to  look  after  Mary  Anne. 
Likewise  to  act  a  little  for  yourself  and  me." 

"  I  wonder,  I  do,  at  your  making  such  ungrateful 
speeches,"  sobbed  Dora.  *'  When  you  know  that  the  other 
day,  when  you  said  you  would  like  a  little  bit  of  fish,  I  went 
out  myself,  miles  and  miles,  and  ordered  it,  to  surprise  you." 

"  And  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  my  own  darling,"  said  I. 
"  I  felt  it  so  much  that  I  wouldn't  on  any  account  have  even 
mentioned  that  you  bought  a  salmon — which  was  too  much 
for  two.  Or  that  it  cost  one  pound  six — which  wa;  more 
than  we  can  afford." 

"  You  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  sobbed  Dora.  "  And  you 
said  I  was  a  Mouse." 

"  And  I'll  say  so  again,  my  love,"  I  returned,  "  a  thousand 

times ! " 

But  I  had  wounded  Dora's  soft  little  heart,  and  she  was 
not  to  be  comforted.  She  was  so  pathetic  in  her  sobbmg 
and  bewailing,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  said  I  don't  know  what 
to  hurt  her.  I  was  obliged  to  hurry  away  ;  I  was  kept  out 
late;  and  I  felt  all  night  such  pangs  of  remorse  as  made  me 
miserable.  I  had  the  conscience  of  an  assassin,  and  was 
haunted  by  a  vague  sense  of  enormous  wickedness. 

It  was  two  or  three  hours  past  midnight  when  I  got 
home.     I  found  my  aunt,  in  our  house,  sitting  up  for  me. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  aunt !  "    said  I,  alarmed. 

"Nothing   Trot,"  she   replied.       **  Sit   down,  sit   down. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  631 

Little  Blossom  has  been  rather  out  of  spirits,  and  I  have 
been  keeping  her  company.     That's  all." 

I  leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand  ;  and  felt  more  sorry 
and  downcast,  as  I  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  than  I  could  have 
supposed  possible  so  soon  after  the  fulfillment  of  my  bright- 
est hopes.  As  I  sat  thinking,  I  happened  to  meet  my  aunt's 
eyes,  which  were  resting  on  my  face.  There  was  an  anxious 
expression  in  them,  but  it  cleared  directly. 

"  I  assure  you,  aunt,"  said  I,  "I  have  been  quite  unhappy 
myself  all  night,  to  think  of  Dora's  being  so.  But  I  had  no 
other  intention  than  to  speak  to  her  tenderly  and  lovingly 
about  our  home-affairs." 

My  aunt  nodded  encouragement. 

"  You  must  have  patience.  Trot,"  said  she. 

"Of  course.  Heaven  knows  I  don't  mean  to  be  un- 
reasonable, aunt !  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  my  aunt.  "  But  Little  Blossom  is  a  very 
tender  little  blossom,  and  the  wind  must  be  gentle  with  her." 

1  thanked  my  good  aunt,  in  my  heart,  for  her  tenderness 
towards  my  wife  ;  and  I  was  sure  that  she  knew  I  did. 

"  Don't  you  think,  aunt,"  said  I,  after  some  further  con- 
templation of  the  fire,  "  that  you  could  advise  and  counsel 
Dora  a  little,  for  our  mutual  advantage,  now  and  then  ? " 

"  Trot,"  returned  my  aunt  with  some  emotion,  "  no  ! 
Don't  ask  me  such  a  thing  !  " 

Her  tone  was  so  very  earnest  that  I  raised  my  eyes  in 
surprise. 

"  I  look  back  on  my  life,  child,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  I 
think  of  some  who  are  in  their  graves  with  whom  I  might 
have  been  on  kinder  terms.  If  I  judged  harshly  of  other 
people's  mistakes  in  marriage,  it  may  have  been  because 
I  had  bitter  reason  to  judge  harshly  of  my  own.  Let  that 
pass.  I  have  been  a  grumpy,  frumpy,  wayward  sort  of  a 
woman,  a  good  many  years.  I  am  still,  and  I  always  shall 
be.  But  you  and  I  have  done  one  another  some  good. 
Trot, — at  all  events,  you  have  done  me  good,  my  dear;  and 
division  must  not  come  between  us  at  this  time  of  day," 

"  Division  between  us  !  "    cried  I. 

"  Child,  child!  "  said  my  aunt,  smoothing  her  dress,  "how 
soon  it  might  come  between  us,  or  how  unhappy  I  might 
make  our  Little  Blossom,  if  I  meddled  in  anything,  a 
prophet  couldn't  say.  I  want  our  pet  to  like  me  and  be  aii 
gay   as   a   butterfly.     Remember   your   own  home,  in  that 


632 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 


second  marriage  ;  and  never  do  both  me  and  her  the  injury 
you  have  hinted  at!  " 

I  comprehended,  at  once,  that  my  aunt  was  right;  and  I 
comprehended  the  full  extent  of  her  generous  feeling  to- 
wards my  dear  wife. 

"  These  are  early  days,  Trot,"  she  pursued,  "  and  Rome 
was  not  built  in  a  day,  nor  in  a  year.  You  have  chosen 
freely  for  yourself;"  a  cloud  passed  over  her  face  for  a  mo- 
ment, I  thought ;  "  and  you  have  chosen  a  very  pretty  and 
a  very  affectionate  creature.  It  will  be  your  duty,  and  it 
will  be  your  pleasure  too — of  course  I  know  that ;  I  am  not 
delivering  a  lecture — to  estimate  her  (as  you  chose  her)  by 
the  qualities  she  has,  and  not  by  the  qualities  she  may  not 
have.  The  latter  you  must  develop  in  her,  if  you  can-  And 
if  you  cannot,  child,"  here  my  aunt  rubbed  her  nose,  "  you 
must  just  accustom  yourself  to  do  without  'em.  But  re- 
member, my  dear,  your  future  is  between  you  two  ;  you  are 
to  work  it  out  for  yourselves.  This  is  marriage.  Trot ;  and 
Heaven  bless  you  both,  in  it,  for  a  pair  of  babes  in  the  wood 
as  you  are  !  " 

My  aunt  said  this  in  a  sprightly  way,  and  gave  me  a  kiss 
to  ratify  the  blessing. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  light  my  little  lantern,  and  see  me  into 
my  band-box  by  the  garden  path:  "  for  there  was  a  commu- 
nication between  our  cottages  in  that  direction.  "  Give 
Betsey  Trotwood's  love  to  Blossom,  when  you  come  back; 
and  what  ever  you  do.  Trot,  never  dream  of  setting  Betsey  up 
as  a  scarecrow,  for  if  /  ever  saw  her  in  the  glass,  she's  quite 
grim  enough  and  gaunt  enough  in  her  private  capacity  !" 

With  this  my  aunt  tied  her  head  up  in  a  handkerchief, 
with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  make  a  bundle  of  it  on 
such  occasions;  and  I  escorted  her  home.  As  she  stood  in 
her  garden,  holding  up  her  little  lantern  to  light  me  back,  I 
thought  her  observation  of  me  had  an  anxious  air  again;  but 
1  was  too  much  occupied  in  pondering  on  what  she  nad  said, 
and  too  much  impressed— for  the  first  time,  in  reality — by 
the  conviction  that  Dora  and  I  had  indeed  to  work  out  our 
future  for  ourselves,  and  that  no  one  could  assist  us,  to  take 
much  notice  of  it. 

Dora  came  stealing  down  in  her  little  slippers,  to  meet  me, 
now  that  I  was  alone;  and  cried  upon  my  shoulder,  and  said 
I  had  been  hard-hearted  and  she  had  been  naughty;  and  I 
said  much  the  same  thing  in  effect,  I  believe;  and  we  made 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  635 

it  up,  and  agreed  that  our  first  little  difference  was  to  be  our 
last,  and  that  we  were  never  to  have  another  if  we  lived  a 
hundred  years. 

The  next  domestic  trial  we  went  through,  was  the  Ordeal 
of  Servants.  Mary  Anne's  cousin  deserted  into  our  coal- 
hole, and  was  brought  out,  to  our  great  amazement,  by  a 
picket  of  his  companions  in  arms,  who  took  him  away  hand- 
cuffed in  a  procession  that  covered  our  front-garden  with 
ignominy.  This  nerved  me  to  get  rid  of  Mary  Anne,  who 
went  so  mildly,  on  receipt  of  wages,  that  I  was  surprised, 
until  I  found  out  about  the  teaspoons,  and  also  about  the 
little  sums  she  had  borrowed  in  my  name  of  the  tradespeo- 
ple without  my  authority.  After  an  interval  of  Mrs.  Kidger- 
bury — the  oldest  inhabitant  of  Kentish  Town,  I  believe, 
who  went  out  charing,  but  was  too  feeble  to  execute  her 
conceptions  of  that  art — we  found  another  treasure,  who 
was  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  women,  but  who  generally 
made  a  point  of  falling  either  up  or  down  the  kitchen  stairs 
with  the  tray,  and  almost  always  plunged  into  the  parlor  as 
into  a  bath,  with  the  tea-things.  The  ravages  committed  by 
this  unfortunate,  rendering  her  dismissal  necessary,  she  was 
succeeded  (with  intervals  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury)  by  a  long 
line  of  Incapables;  terminating  in  a  young  person  of  genteel 
appearance,  who  went  to  Greenwich  Fair  in  Dora's  bonnet. 
After  whom  I  remember  nothing  but  an  average  equality  of 
failure. 

Everybody  we  had  anything  to  do  with  seemed  to  cheat 
us.  Our  appearance  in  a  shop  was  a  signal  for  the  damaged 
goods  to  be  brought  out  immediately.  If  we  bought  a  lob- 
ster, it  was  full  of  water.  All  our  meat  turned  out  to  be 
tough,  and  there  was  hardly  any  crust  to  our  loaves.  In 
search  of  the  principle  on  which  joints  ought  to  be  roasted, 
to  be  roasted  enough,  and  not  too  much,  I  myself  referred 
to  the  Cookery  Book,  and  found  it  there  established  as  the 
allowance  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  every  pound,  and  say 
a  quarter  over.  But  the  principle  always  failed  us  by  some 
curious  fatality,  and  we  never  could  hit  any  medium  between 
redness  and  cinders. 

I  had  reason  to  believe  that  in  accomplishing  these  fail- 
ures we  incurred  a  far  greater  expense  than  if  we  had  achieved 
a  series  of  triumphs.  It  appeared  to  me,  on  looking  over 
the  tradesmen's  books,  as  if  we  might  have  kept  the  base- 
ment s^ory  paved  with  butter,  such  was  the  extensive  scale 


634  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

of  our  consumption  of  that  article.  I  don't  know  whether 
the  Excise  returns  of  the  period  may  have  exhibited  any  in- 
crease in  the  demand  for  pepper;  but  if  our  performances 
did  not  affect  the  market,  I  should  say  that  several  families 
must  have  left  off  using  it.  And  the  most  wonderful  fact 
of  all  was,  that  we  never  had  anything  in  the  house. 

As  to  the  washerwoman  pawning  the  clothes,  and  coming 
in  a  state  of  penitent  intoxication  to  apologize,  I  suppose 
that  might  have  happened  several  times  to  anybody.  Also 
the  chimney  on  fire,  the  parish  engine,  and  perjury  on  the 
part  of  the  Beadle.  But  I  apprehend  that  we  were  person- 
ally unfortunate  in  engaging  a  servant  with  a  taste  for  cor- 
dials, who  swelled  our  running  account  for  porter  at  the 
public-house  by  such  inexplicable  items  as  "  quartern  rum 
shrub  (Mrs.  C.)"  "Half-quartern  gin  and  cloves  (Mrs.  C.)" 
"Glass  rum  and  peppermint  (Mrs.  C.)" — the  parenthesis 
always  referring  to  Dora,  who  was  supposed,  it  appeared  on 
explanation,  to  have  imbibed  the  whole  of  these  refreshments. 

One  of  our  first  feats  in  the  housekeeping  way  was  a  little 
dinner  to  Traddles.  I  met  him  in  town,  and  asked  him  to 
walk  out  with  me  that  afternoon.  He  readily  consenting,  I 
wrote  to  Dora,  saying  I  would  bring  him  home.  It  was 
pleasant  weather,  and  on  the  road  we  made  my  domestic 
happiness  the  theme  of  conversation.  Traddles  was  very 
full  of  it;  and  said,  that,  picturing  himself  with  such  a  home, 
and  Sophy  waiting  and  preparing  for  him,  he  could  think  of 
nothing  wanting  to  complete  his  bliss. 

I  could  not  have  wished  for  a  prettier  little  wife  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  table,  but  I  certainly  could  have  wished, 
when  we  sat  down,  for  a  little  more  room.  I  did  not  know 
how  it  was,  but  though  there  were  only  two  of  us,  we  were 
at  once  always  cramped  for  room,  and  yet  had  always  room 
enough  to  lose  everything  in.  I  suspect  it  may  have  been 
because  nothing  had  a  place  of  its  own,  except  Jip's  pagoda, 
which  invariably  blocked  up  the  main  thoroughfare.  On  the 
present  occasion,  Traddles  was  so  hemmed  in  by  the  pagoda 
and  the  guitar-case,  and  Dora's  flower-painting,  and  my 
writing-table,  that  I  had  serious  doubts  of  the  possibility  of 
his  using  his  knife  and  fork;  but  he  protested  with  his  own 
good-humor,  "  Oceans  of  room,  Copperfield!  I  assure  you, 
Oceans!" 

There  was  another  thing  I  could  have  wished,  namely, 
that  Jip  had  never  been  encouraged  to  walk  about  the  table- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  635 

cloth  during  dinner.  I  began  to  think  there  was  something 
disorderly  in  his  being  there  at  all,  even  if  he  bad  not  been 
in  the  habit  of  putting  his  foot  in  the  salt  or  thv.  melted  but- 
ter. On  this  occasion  he  seemed  to  think  he  was  intro- 
duced expressly  to  keep  Traddles  at  bay;  and  he  barked  at 
my  old  friend,  and  made  short  runs  at  his  plate,  with  such 
undaunted  pertinacity,  that  he  may  be  said  to  have  engrossed 
the  conversation. 

However,  as  I  knew  how  tender-hearted  my  dear  Dora 
was,  and  how  sensitive  she  would  be  to  any  slight  upon  her 
favorite,  I  hinted  no  objection.  For  similar  reasons  I  made 
no  allusion  to  the  skirmishing  plates  upon  the  floor;  or  to 
the  disreputable  appearance  of  the  castors,  which  were  all 
at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  looked  drunk;  or  to  the  further 
blockade  of  Traddles  by  wandering  vegetable  dishes  and 
jugs.  I  could  not  help  wondering  in  my  own  mind,  as  I 
contemplated  the  boiled  leg  of  mutton  before  me,  previous 
to  carving  it,  how  it  came  to  pass  that  our  joints  of  meat 
were  of  such  extraordinary  shapes — and  whether  our 
butcher  contracted  for  all  the  deformed  sheep  that  came  in- 
to the  world;  but  I  kept  my  reflections  to  myself. 

"  My  love,"  said  I  to  Dora,"  what  have  you  got  in  that  dish?" 

I  could  not  imagine  why  Dora  had  been  making  tempting 
little  faces  at  me,  as  if  she  wanted  to  kiss  me. 

"  Oysters,  dear,"  said  Dora,  timidly. 

"Was  that  your  thought?"  said  I,  delighted. 

"  Ye-yes,  Doady,"  said  Dora. 

"  There  never  was  a  happier  one!"  I  exclaimed,  laying 
down  the  carving-knife  and  fork.  "  There  is  nothing  Trad- 
dles likes  so  much!" 

"  Ye-yes,  Doady,"  said  Dora,  "  and  so  I  bought  a  beauti- 
ful little  barrel  of  them,  and  the  man  said  they  were  very 
good.  .  But  I — I  am  afraid  there's  something  the  matter  with 
them.  They  don't  seem  right."  Here  Dora  shook  her 
head,  and  diamonds  twinkled  in  her  eyes. 

"  They  are  only  opened  in  both  shells,"  said  I.  "  Take 
the  top  one  off,  my  love." 

"  But  it  won't  come  off,"  said  Dora,  trying  very  hard,  and 
looking  very  much  distressed. 

"  Do  you  know,  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  cheerfully 
examining  the  dish,  "  I  think  it  is  in  consequence — they  are 
capital  oysters,  but,  I  ^/tink  it  is  in  consequence — of  their 
never  having  been  opened." 


636  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

They  never  had  been  opened;  and  we  had  no  oyster- 
knives — and  couldn't  have  used  them  if  we  had  ;  so  we 
looked  at  the  oysters  and  ate  the  mutton.  At  least  we  ate 
as  much  of  it  as  was  done,  and  made  up  with  capers.  If  I 
had  permitted  him,  I  am  satisfied  that  Traddles  would  have 
made  a  perfect  savage  of  himself,  and  eaten  a  plate  of  raw 
meat,  to  express  enjoyment  of  the  repast;  but  I  would  hear 
of  no  such  immolation  on  the  altar  of  friendship,  and  we 
had  a  course  of  bacon  instead;  there  happening,  by  good 
fortune,  to  be  cold  bacon  in  the  larder. 

My  poor  little  wife  was  in  such  affliction  when  she  thought 
I  should  be  annoyed,  and  in  such  a  state  of  joy  when  she 
found  I  was  not,  that  the  discomfiture  I  had  subdued,  very 
soon  vanished,  and  we  passed  a  happy  evening;  Dora  sitting 
with  her  arm  on  my  chair,  while  Traddles  and  I  discussed  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  taking  every  opportunity  of  whispering  in 
my  ear  that  it  was  so  good  of  me  not  to  be  a  cruel,  cross  old 
boy.  By-the-by  she  made  tea  for  us;  which  it  was  so 
pretty  to  see  her  do,  as  if  she  were  busying  herself  with  a 
set  of  doll's  tea-things,  that  I  was  not  particular  about  the 
quality  of  the  beverage.  Then  Traddles  and  I  played  a 
game  or  two  atcribbage  ;  and  Dora  singing  to  the  guitar 
the  while,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  our  courtship  and  marriage 
were  a  tender  dream  of  mine,  and  the  night  when  I  first 
listened  to  her  voice  was  not  yet  over. 

When  Traddles  went  away,  and  I  came  back  into  the  par- 
lor from  seeing  him  out,  my  wife  planted  her  chair  close  to 
mine,  and  sat  down  by  my  side. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  try  to  teach  me, 
Doady?" 

"  I  must  teach  myself  fiirst,  Dora,"  said  I.  "  I  am  as  bad 
as  you,  love." 

"Ah!  but  you  can  learn,"  she  returned;  "and  you  are  a 
clever,  clever  man!" 

"  Nonsense,  Mouse!"  said  I. 

"I  wish,"  resumed  my  wife,  after  a  long  silence,  "that  I 
could  have  gone  down  into  the  country  for  a  whole  year,  and 
lived  with  Agnes!" 

Her  hands  were  clasped  upon  my  shoulder,  and  her  chin 
rested  on  them,  and  her  blue  eyes  looked  quietly  into  mine. 

"  Why  so?"  I  asked. 

"  I  think  she  might  have  improved  me,  and  I  think  I  might 
have  learnt  from  her^'  said  Dora. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD/  637 

"  All  in  good  time,  my  love.  Agnes  has  had  her  father  to 
take  care  of  for  these  many  years,  you  should  remember. 
Even  when  she  was  quite  a  child,  she  was  the  Agnes  whom 
we  know,"  said  I. 

'*  Will  you  call  me  a  name  I  want  you  to  call  me?"  in- 
quired Dora,  without  moving. 

"  What  is  it?"  I  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  It's  a  stupid  name,"  she  said,  shaking  her  curls  for  a 
moment.     *' Child- wife." 

I  laughingly  asked  my  child-wife*  what  her  fancy  was  in 
desiring  to  be  so  called?  She  answered  without  moving, 
otherwise  than  as  the  arm  I  twined  about  her  may  have 
brought  her  blue  eyes  nearer  to  me: 

"  I  don't  mean,  you  silly  fellow,  that  you  should  use  the 
name,  instead  of  Dora.  I  only  mean  that  you  should  think 
of  me  that  way.  When  you  are  going  to  be  angry  with  me, 
say  to  yourself,  *  it's  only  my  child-wife!'  When  I  am  very 
disappointing,  say,  *  I  knew,  a  long  time  ago,  that  she  would 
make  but  a  child-wife!'  When  you  miss  what  I  should  like 
to  be,  and  I  think  can  never  be,  say,  '  still  my  foolish  child- 
wife  loves  me!'     For  indeed  I  do." 

I  had  not  been  serious  with  her  ;  having  no  idea,  until 
now,  that  she  was  serious  herself.  But  her  affectionate 
nature  was  so  happy  in  what  I  now  said  to  her  with  my 
whole  heart,  that  her  face  became  a  laughing  one  before  her 
glittering  eyes  were  dry.  She  was  soon  my  child-wife  in- 
deed; sitting  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  Chinese  House, 
ringing  all  the  little  bells  one  after  another,  to  punish  Jip 
for  his  recent  bad  behavior;  while  Jip  lay  blinking  in  the 
doorway  with  his  head  out,  even  too  lazy  to  be  teased. 

This  appeal  of  Dora's  made  a  strong  impression  on  me.  I 
look  back  on  the  time  I  write  of;  I  invoke  the  innocent 
figure  that  I  dearly  loved,  to  come  out  from  the  mists  and 
shadows  of  the  past,  and  turn  its  gentle  head  toward  me  once 
again;  and  I  can  still  declare  that  this  one  little  speech  was 
constantly  in  my  memory.  I  may  not  have  used  it  to  the  best 
account;  I  was  young  and  inexperienced;  but  I  never  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  its  artless  pleading. 

Dora  told  me  shortly  afterwards,  that  she  was  going  to  be 
a  wonderful  housekeeper.  Accordingly,  she  polished  the 
tablets,  pointed  the  pencil,  bought  an  immense  account- 
book,  carefully  stitched  up  with  a  needle  and  thread  all  the 
leaves  of  the  Cookery-Book  which  Jip  had  torn,  and  made 


6^8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

quite  a  desperate  little  attempt  **  to  be  good,'  as  she  called 
it.  But  the  figureshad  the  old  obstinate  propensity — they 
would  not  add  up.  When  she  had  entered  two  or  three 
laborious  items  in  the  account-book,  Jip  would  walk  over 
the  page,  wagging  his  tail,  and  smear  them  all  out.  Her 
own  little  right-hand  middle  finger  got  steeped  to  the  very 
bone  in  ink;  and  I  think  that  was  the  only  decided  result 
attained. 

Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  when  I  was  at  home  and  at 
work — for  I  wrote  a  good  deal  now,  and  was  beginning  in  a 
email  way  to  be  known  as  a  writer — I  would  lay  down  my  pen, 
and  watch  my  child-wife  trying  to  be  good.  First  of  all,  she 
would  bring  out  the  immense  account-book,  and  lay  it  down 
upon  the  table,  with  a  deep  sigh.  Then  she  would  open  it 
at  the  place  where  Jip  had  made  it  illegible  last  night,  and 
call  Jip  up,  to  look  at  his  misdeeds.  This  would  occasion  a 
diversion  in  Jip's  favor,  and  some  inking  of  his  nose  per- 
haps, as  a  penalty.  Then  she  would  tell  Jip  to  lie  down  on 
the  table  instantly,  "  like  a  lion  " — which  was  one  of  his 
tricks,  though  I  cannot  say  the  likeness  was  striking — and, 
if  he  were  in  an  obedient  humor,  he  would  obey.  Then  she 
would  take  up  a  pen,  and  begin  to  write,  and  find  a  hair  in 
it.  Then  she  would  take  up  another  pen,  and  begin  to 
write,  and  find  that  it  spluttered.  Then  she  would  take  up 
another  pen,  and  begin  to  write,  and  say  in  a  low  voice, 
"Oh,  it's  a  talking  pen,  and  will  disturb  Doady!"  And 
then  she  would  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  put  the  account- 
book  away  after  pretending  to  crush  the  lion  with  it. 

Or,  if  she  were  in  a  very  sedate  and  serious  state  of  mind, 
she  would  sit  down  with  the  tablets,  and  a  little  basket  of 
bills  and  other  documents,  which  looked  more  like  curl- 
papers than  anything  else,  and  endeavor  to  get  some  result 
out  of  them.  After  severely  comparing  one  with  another, 
and  making  entries  on  the  tablets,  and  blotting  them  out, 
and  counting  all  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  over  and  over 
again,  backwards  and  forwards,  she  would  be  so  vexed  and 
discouraged,  and  would  look  so  unhappy,  that  it  gave  me 
pain  to  see  her  bright  face  clouded — and  for  me  ! — and  I 
would  go  softly  to  her,  and  say: 

"  What's  the  matter,  Dora  ?" 

Dora  would  look  up  hopelessly,  and  reply,  **  They  won't 
come  right.  They  make  my  head  ache  so.  And  they  won't 
do  anything  I  want !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELa  639 

Then  I  would  say,  *'  Now  let  us  try  together.  Let  me 
show  you,  Dora." 

Then  I  would  commence  a  practical  demonstration,  to 
which  Dora  would  pay  profound  attention,  perhaps  for  five 
minutes;  when  she  would  begin  to  be  dreadfully  tired,  and 
would  lighten  the  subject  by  curling  my  hair,  or  trying  the 
effect  of  my  face  with  my  shirt  collar  turned  down.  If  I 
tacitly  checked  this  playfulness,  and  persisted,  she  would 
look  so  scared  and  disconsolate,  as  she  became  more  and 
more  bewildered,  that  the  remembrance  of  her  natural  gayety 
when  I  first  strayed  into  her  path,  and  of  her  being  my  child- 
wife,  would  come  reproachfully  upon  me;  and  I  would  lay 
the  pencil  down,  and  call  for  the  guitar. 

I  had  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do,  and  had  many  anxieties, 
but  the  same, considerations  made  me  keep  them  to  myself 
I  am  far  from  sure,  now,  that  it  was  right  to  do  this,  but  I 
did  it  for  my  child-wife's  sake.  I  search  my  breast,  and  I 
commit  its  secrets,  if  I  know  them,  without  any  reservation 
to  this  paper.  The  old  unhappy  loss  or  want  of  something 
had,  I  am  conscious,  some  place  in  my  heart;  but  not  to  the 
embitterment  of  my  life.  When  I  walked  alone  in  the  fine 
weather,  and  thought  of  the  summer  days  when  all  the  air 
had  been  filled  with  my  boyish  enchantment,  I  did  miss 
something  of  the  realization  of  my  dreams;  but  I  thought  it 
was  a  softened  glory  of  the  Past,  which  nothing  could  have 
thrown  upon  the  present  time.  I  did  feel,  sometimes,  for  a 
little  while,  that  I  could  have  wished  my  wife  had  been  my 
counsellor;  had  had  more  character  and  purpose,  to  sustain 
me  and  improve  me  by;  had  been  endowed  with  power  to 
fill  up  the  void  which  somewhere  seemed  to  be  about  me; 
iDut  I  felt  as  if  this  were  an  unearthly  consummation  of  my 
happiness,  that  never  had  been  meant  to  be,  and  never  could 
have  been. 

I  was  a  boyish  husband  as  to  years.  I  had  known  the 
softening  influence  of  no  other  sorrows  or  experiences 
than  those  recorded  in  these  leaves.  If  I  did  any 
wrong,  as  I  may  have  done  much,  I  did  it  in  mistaken 
love,  and  in  my  want  of  wisdom.  I  write  the  exact  truth. 
It  would  avail  me  nothing  to  extenuate  it  now. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  took  upon  myself  the  toils  and  cares  of 
our  life,  and  had  no  partner  in  them.  We  lived  much  as  before, 
in  reference  to  our  scrambling  household  arrangements;  but 
I  had  got  used  to  those,  and  Dora  I  was  pleased  to  see  was 


640  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

seldom  vexed  now.  She  was  bright  and  cheerful  in  the  oM 
childish  way,  loved  me  dearly,  and  was  happy  with  her  old 
trifles. 

When  the  debates  were  heavy — I  mean  as  to  length,  not 
quality,  for  in  the  last  respect  they  were  not  often  otherwise 
— and  I  went  home  late,  Dora  would  never  rest  when  slie 
heard  my  footsteps,  but  would  always  come  down  stairs  to 
meet  me.  When  my  evenings  were  unoccupied  by  the  pur- 
suit for  which  I  had  qualified  myself  with  so  much  pains,  and 
I  was  engaged  in  writing  at  home,  she  would  sit  quietly  near 
me,  however  late  the  hour,  and  be  so  mute,  that  I  would 
often  think  she  had  dropped  asleep.  But  generally,  when  I 
raised  my  head,  I  saw  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  me  with  the 
quiet  attention  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 

"  Oh,  what  a  weary  boy  !"  said  Dora  one  night,  when  I 
met  her  eyes  as  I  was  shutting  up  my  desk. 

"What  a  weary  girl!"  said  I.  "That's  more  to  the  pur- 
pose. You  must  go  to  bed  another  time,  my  love.  It's  far 
too  late  for  you." 

"No,  don't  send  me  to  bed!"  pleaded  Dora,  coming  to 
my  side.     "  Pray  don't  do  that!" 

"  Dora!" 

To  my  amazement  she  was  sobbing  on  my  neck. . 

"  Not  well,  my  dear!  not  happy!" 

"Yes!  quite  well,  and  very  happy!"  said  Dora.  "But 
say  you'll  let  me  stop,  and  see  you  write." 

"Why,  what  a  sight  for  such  bright  eyes  at  midnight!"  I 
replied. 

"  Are  they  bright,  though  ?"  returned  Dora,  laughing. 
"  I'm  so  glad  they're  bright." 

"Little  Vanity!"  said  I. 

But  it  was  not  vanity;  it  was  only  harmless  delight  in  my 
admiration.     I  knew  that  very  well,  before  she  told  me  so. 

"  If  you  think  them  pretty,  say  I  may  always  stop,  and 
see  you  write!"  said  Dora.     ''Do  you  think  them  pretty  ?" 

"Very  pretty." 

"  Then  let  me  always  stop  and  see  you  write." 

"I'm  afraid  that  won't  improve  their  brightness,  Dora." 

*' Yes  it  will!  Because,  you  clever  boy,  you'll  not  forget 
me  then,  while  you  are  full  of  silent  fancies.  Will  you  mind 
it,  if  I  say  something  very,  very  silly  ? — more  than  usual  ?" 
inquired  Dora,  peeping  over  my  shoulder  into  my  face. 

"  What  wonderful  thing  is  that  ?"  said  I. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  64I 

"  Please  let  me  hold  the  pens,"  said  Dora.  "  I  want  to 
have  something  to  do  with  all  those  many  hours  when  you 
are  so  industrious.     May  I  hold  the  pens  ?" 

The  remembrance  of  her  pretty  joy  when  I  said  yes, 
brings  tears  into  my  eyes.  The  next  time  I  sat  down  to 
write,  and  regularly  afterwards,  she  sat  in  her  old  place 
with  a  spare  bundle  of  pens  at  her  side.  Her  triumph  in 
this  connexion  with  my  work,  and  her  delight  when  I 
wanted  a  new  pen — which  I  very  often  feigned  to  do — 
suggested  to  me  a  new  way  of  pleasing  my  child-wife.  I 
occasionally  made  a  pretense  of  wanting  a  page  or  two  of 
manuscript  copied.  Then  Dora  was  in  her  glory.  The 
preparations  she  made  for  this  great  work,  the  aprons  she 
put  on,  the  bibs  she  borrowed  from  the  kitchen  to  keep  off 
the  ink,  the  time  she  took,  the  innumerable  stoppages  she 
made  to  have  a  laugh  with  Jip  as  if  he  understood  it  all, 
her  conviction  that  her  work  was  incomplete  unless  she 
signed  her  name  at  the  end,  and  the  way  in  which  she  would 
bring  it  to  me,  like  a  school-copy,  and  then,  when  I  praised 
it,  clasp  me  around  the  neck,  are  touching  recollections  to 
me,  simple  as  they  might  appear  to  other  men. 

She  took  possession  of  the  keys  soon  after  this,  and  went 
jingling  about  the  house  with  the  whole  bunch  in  a  little 
basket,  tied  to  her  slender  waist.  I  seldom  found  that  the 
places  to  which  they  belonged  were  locked,  or  that  they 
were  of  any  use  except  as  a  plaything  for  Jip — but  Dora 
was  pleased,  and  that  pleased  me.  She  was  quite  satisfied 
that  a  good  deal  was  effected  by  this  make-belief  of  house- 
keeping; and  was  as  merry  as  if  we  had  been  keeping  a 
baby-house  for  a  joke. 

So  we  went  on.  Dora  was  hardly  less  affectionate  to  my 
aunt  than  to  me,  and  often  told  her  of  the  time  when  she 
was  afraid  she  was  a  "cross  old  thing."  I  never  saw  my 
aunt  unbend  more  systematically  to  any  one.  She  courted 
Jip,  though  Jip  never  responded;  listened,  day  after  day  to 
the  guitar,  though  I  2m  afraid  she  had  no  taste  for  music; 
never  attacked  the  Incapables,  though  the  temptation  must 
have  been  severe;  went  wonderful  distances  on  foot  to  pur- 
chase, as  surprises,  any  trifles  that  she  found  out  Dora 
wanted;  and  never  came  in  by  the  garden,  and  missed  her 
from  the  room,  but  she  would  call  out,  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  cheerfully  all  over  the  house; 

**  Where's  Little  Blossom?" 


642  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

MR.    DICK   FULFILLS  MY    AUNT's  PREDICTION. 

It  was  some  time  now  since  I  had  left  the  Doctor.  Liv- 
ing in  his  neighborhood,  I  saw  him  frequently  ;  and  we  all 
went  to  his  house  on  two  or  three  occasions  to  dinner  or 
tea.  The  Old  Soldier  was  in  permanent  quarters  under  the 
Doctor's  roof.  She  was  exactly  the  same  as  ever,  and  the 
same  immortal  butterflies  hovered  over  her  cap. 

Like  some  other  mothers,  whom  I  have  known  in  the 
course  of  my  life,  Mrs.  Markleham  was  far  more  fond  of 
pleasure  than  her  daughter  was.  She  required  a  great  deal 
of  amusement,  and,  like  a  deep  old  soldier,  pretended,  in 
consulting  her  own  inclinations,  to  be  devoting  herself  to 
her  child.  The  Doctor's  desire  that  Annie  should  be  en- 
tertained, was  therefore  particularly  acceptable  to  this  ex- 
cellent parent ;  who  expressed  unqualified  approval  of  his 
discretion. 

I  have  no  doubt,  indeed,  that  she  probed  the  Doctor's 
wound  without  knowing  it.  Meaning  nothing  but  a  certain 
matured  frivolity  and  selfishness,  not  always  inseparable 
from  full-blown  years,  I  think  she  confirmed  him  in  his  fear 
that  he  was  a  constraint  upon  his  young  wife,  and  that 
there  was  no  congeniality  of  feeling  between  them,  by  so 
strongly  commending  his  design  of  lightening  the  load  of 
her  life. 

**  My  dear  soul,"  she  said  to  him  one  day  when  I  was 
present,  "  you  know  there  is  no  doubt  it  would  be  a  little 
pokey  for  Annie  to  be  always  shut  up  here." 

The  Doctor  nodded  his  benevolent  head. 

"  When  she  comes  to  her  mother's  age,"  said  Mrs.  Mark- 
leham, with  a  flourish  of  her  fan,  "  then,  it'll  be  another 
thing.  You  might  put  me  into  a  jail,  with  genteel  society 
and  a  rubber,  and  I  should  never  care  to  come  out.  But  I 
am  not  Annie,  you  know;  and  Annie  is  not  her  mother." 

"  Surely,  surely,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  You  are  the  best  of  creatures — no,  I  beg  pardon  !  "  for 
the  Doctor  made  a  gesture  of  depreciation,  "  I  must  say  be- 
fore your  face,  as  I  always  say  behind  your  back,  you  are 
the  best  of  creatures;  but  of  course  you  don't — now  do 
you  ? — enter  into  the  same  pursuits  and  fancies  as  Annie  ?  " 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  643 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  sorrowful  tone. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  retorted  the  Old  Soldier.  "  Take 
your  Dictionary  for  example.  What  a  useful  work  a  Dic- 
tionary is  !  What  a  necessary  work  !  The  meanings  of 
words  !  Without  Doctor  Johnson,  or  somebody  of  that 
sort,  we  might  have  been  at  this  present  moment  calling  an 
Italian-iron  a  bedstead  But  we  can't  expect  a  Dictionary 
— especially  when  it's  making — to  interest  Annie,  can  we  ? " 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  And  that's  why  I  so  much  approve,"  said  Mrs.  Markle- 
ham,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  with  her  shut-up  fan,  "of 
your  thoughtfulness.  It  shows  that  you  don't  expect,  as 
many  elderly  people  do  expect,  old  heads  on  young  shoul- 
ders. You  have  studied  Annie's  character,  and  you  under- 
stand it.     That's  what  I  find  so  charming." 

Even  the  calm  and  patient  face  of  Dr.  Strong  expressed 
some  little  sense  of  pain,  I  thought,  under  the  infliction  of 
these  compliments. 

"  Therefore,  my  dear  Doctor,"  said  the  Soldier,  giving 
him  several  affectionate  taps,  "  you  may  command  me,  at 
all  times  and  seasons.  Now,  do  understand  that  I  am  en- 
tirely at  your  service.  I  am  ready  to  go  with  Annie  to  op- 
eras, concerts,  exhibitions,  all  kinds  of  places  ;  and  you  shall 
never  find  that  I  am  tired.  Duty,  my  dear  Doctor,  before 
every  consideration  in  the  universe  !  " 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She  was  one  of  those  peo- 
ple who  can  bear  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  she  never 
flinched  in  her  perseverance  in  the  cause.  She  seldom  got 
hold  of  the  newspaper  (which  she  settled  herself  down  in  the 
softest  chair  in  the  house  to  read  through  an  eye-glass,  every 
day,  for  two  hours),  but  she  found  out  something  that  she 
was  certain  Annie  would  lil^e  to  see.  It  was  in  vain  for 
Annie  to  protest  that  she  was  weary  of  such  things.  Her 
mother's  remonstrance  always  was,  "  Now,  my  dear  Annie, 
I  am  sure  you  know  better  ;  and  I  must  tell  you,  my  love, 
that  you  are  not  making  a  proper  return  for  the  kindness  of 
Dr.  Strong." 

This  was  usually  said  in  the  Doctor's  presence,  and  ap- 
peared to  me  to  constitute  Annie's  principal  inducement  for 
withdrawing  her  objections  when  she  made  any.  But  in 
general  she  resigned  herself  to  her  mother,  and  went  where 
the  Old  Soldier  would. 

It  rarely  happened  now  that  Mr.   Maldon  accompanied 


644  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

them.  Sometimes  my  aunt  and  Dora  were  invited  to  do  so, 
and  accepted  the  invitation.  Sometimes  Dora  only  was 
asked.  The  time  had  been  when  I  should  have  been  uneasy 
in  her  going;  but  reflection  on  what  had  passed  that  former 
night  in  the  Doctor's  study  had  made  a  change  in  my  mis- 
trust. I  believed  that  the  Doctor  was  right,  and  I  had  no 
worse  suspicions. 

My  aunt  rubbed  her  nose  sometimes  when  she  happened 
to  be  alone  with  me,  and  said  she  couldn't  make  it  out;  she 
wished  they  were  happier;  she  didn't  think  our  military 
friend  (so  she  always  called  the  Old  Soldier)  mended  the 
matter  at  all.  My  aunt  further  expressed  her  opinion,"  that 
if  our  military  friend  would  cut  off  those  butterflies,  and 
give  'em  to  the  chimney-sweepers  for  May-day,  it  would 
look  like  the  beginning  of  something  sensible  on  her  part." 

But  her  abiding  reliance  was  on  Mr.  Dick.  That  man 
had  evidently  an  idea  in  his  head,  she  said;  and  if  he  could 
only  once  pen  it  up  in  a  corner,  which  was  his  great  diffi- 
culty, he  would  distinguish  himself  in  some  extraordinary 
manner. 

Unconscious  of  this  prediction,  Mr.  Dick  continued  to 
occupy  precisely  the  same  ground  in  reference  to  the  Doc- 
tor and  to  Mrs.  Strong.  He  seemed  neither  to  advance  nor 
to  recede.  He  appeared  to  have  settled  into  his  original 
foundation,  like  a  building;  and  I  must  confess  that  my 
faith  in  his  ever  moving,  was  not  much  greater  than  if  he 
had  been  a  building. 

But  one  night,  when  I  had  been  married  some  months, 
Mr.  Dick  put  his  head  into  the  parlor,  where  I  was  writing 
alone  (Dora  having  gone  out  with  my  aunt  to  take  tea  with 
the  two  little  birds),  and  said,  with  a  significant  cough: 

"  You  couldn't  speak  to  me  without  inconveniencing  your- 
self, Trotwood,  I  am  afraid?" 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  I;  ''  come  in!  " 

"  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  laying  his  finger  on  the  side 
of  his  nose,  after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  me.  "  Before  I 
sit  down,  I  wish  to  make  an  observation.  You  know  your 
aunt  ? " 

"A  little,"  I  replied. 

"  She  is  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  sir!  " 

After  the  delivery  of  this  communication,  which  he  shot 
out  of  himself  as  if  he  were  loaded  with  it,  Mr.  Dick  sat 
down  with  greater  gravity  than  usual,  and  looked  at  me. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  645 

"  Now,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dick,"  I  am  going  to  put  a  question 
to  you." 

"  As  many  as  you  please,"  said  I. 

''  What  do  you  consider  me,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dick,  folding 
his  arms. 

*'  A  dear  old  friend,"  said  I. 

"  Thank  you,  Trotwood,"  returned  Mr.  Dick,  laughing, 
and  reaching  across  in  high  glee  to  shake  hands  with  me. 
"  But  I  mean,  boy,"  resuming  his  gravity,  "  what  do  you 
consider  me  in  this  respect  ?  "  touching  his  forehead. 

I  was  puzzled  how  to  answer,  but  he  helped  me  with  a 
word. 

"  Weak  !  "  said  Mr.  Dick. 

"  Well,"  I  replied  dubiously,  "  rather  so." 

"Exactly!"  cried  Mr.  Dick,  who  seemed  quite  enchanted 
by  my  reply.  "That  is,  Trotwood,  when  they  took  some  of 
the   trouble  out  of  you-know-who's  head,  and   put  it  you 

know  where,   there   was  a "  Mr.   Dick  made  his  two 

hands  revolve  very  fast  about  each  other  a  great  number  of 
times,  and  then  brought  them  into  collision,  and  rolled  them 
over  and  over  one  another,  to  express  confusion.  "  There 
was  that  sort  of  thing  done  to  me  somehow  ?     Eh.^" 

I  nodded  at  him,  and  he  nodded  back  again. 

"  In  short,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  dropping  his  voice  to  a 
whisper,  "I  am  simple." 

I  would  have  qualified  that  conclusion,  but  he  stopped 
me. 

"Yes,  I  am!  She  pretends  I  am  not.  She  won't  hear  of 
it;  but  I  am.  I  know  I  am.  If  she  hadn't  stood  my  friend, 
sir,  I  should  have  been  shut  up,  to  lead  a  dismal  life  these 
many  years.  But  I'll  provide  for  her!  I  never  spend  the 
copying  money.  I  put  it  in  a  box.  I  have  made  a  will.  I'll 
leave  it  all  to  her.     She  shall  be  rich — noble!" 

Mr.  Dick  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  He  then  folded  it  up  with  great  care,  pressed  it 
smooth  between  his  two  hands,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
seemed  to  put  my  aunt  away  with  it. 

"Now  you  are  a  fine  scholar,  Trotwood,"  said  Mr.  Dick. 
"  You  are  a  fine  scholar.  You  know  what  a  learned  man, 
what  a  great  man,  the  Doctor  is.  You  know  what  honor  he 
has  always  done  me.  Not  proud  in  his  wisdom.  Humble, 
humble — condescending  e-ven  to  poor  Dick,  who  is  simple 
and  knows  nothing.     I  have  sent  his  name  up,  on  a  scrap 


646  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

of  paper,  to  the  kite,  along  the  string,  when  it  has  been  in 
the  sky,  among  the  larks.  The  kite  has  been  glad  to  receive 
it,  sir,  and  the  sky  has  been  brighter  with  it." 

I  delighted  him  by  saying,  most  heartily,  that  the  Doctor 
was  deserving  of  our  best  respect  and  highest  esteem. 

'* And  his  beautiful  wife  is  a  star,"  said  Mr.  Dick.  "A 
shining  star.  I  have  seen  her  shine,  sir.  But,"  bringing 
his  chair  nearer,  and  laying  one  hand  upon  my  knee — 
"clouds,  sir — clouds." 

I  answered  the  solicitude  which  his  face  expressed,  by 
conveying  the  same  expression  into  my  own,  and  shaking 
my  head. 

"  What  clouds  ?"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

He  looked  so  wistfully  into  my  face,  and  was  so  anxious 
to  understand,  that  I  took  great  pains  to  answer  him  slowly 
and  distinctly,  as  I  might  have  entered  on  an  explanation 
to  a  child. 

"  There  is  some  unfortunate  division  between  them,"  I 
replied.  "  Some  unhappy  cause  of  separation.  A  secret. 
It  may  be  inseparable  from  the  discrepancy  in  their  years. 
It  may  have  grown  up  out  of  almost  nothing." 

Mr.  Dick,  who  told  off  every  sentence  with  a  thoughtful 
nod,  paused  when  I  had  done,  and  sat  considering,  with  his 
eyes  upon  my  face,  and  his  hand  upon  my  knee. 

"  Doctor  not  angry  with  her,  Trotwood  ?"  he  said  after 
some  time. 

"  No.     Devoted  to  her." 

"  Then  I  have  got  it,  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

The  sudden  exultation  with  which  he  slapped  me  on  the 
knee,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  eyebrows  lifted 
up  as  high  as  he  could  possibly  lift  them,  made  me  think 
him  farther  out  of  his  wits  than  ever.  He  became  suddenly 
grave  again,  and  leaning  forward  as  before,  said — first  res- 
pectfully taking  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  as  if  it  really 
did  represent  my  aunt. 

"  Most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  Trotwood.  Why 
has  s/ie  done  nothing  to  set  things  right  ?" 

"  Too  delicate  and  difficult  a  subject  for  such  interference," 
I  replied. 

"  Fine  scholar,"  said  Mr.  Dick  touching  me  with  his  finger, 
"  Why  has  /le  done  nothing  ?" 

*'  For  the  same  reason,"  I  returned. 

"Then  I  have  got  it,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dick.     And  he  stood 


.  DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  647 

up  before  me,  more^  exultingly  than  before,  nodding  his 
head,  and  striking  himself  repeatedly  upon  the  breast,  until 
one  might  have  supposed  that  he  had  nearly  nodded  and 
struck  all  the  breath  out  of  his  body. 

"  A  poor  fellow  with  a  craze,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  a  sim- 
pleton,a  weak-minded  person — present  company,  you  know!" 
striking  himself  again,  "  may  do  what  wonderful  people  may 
not  do.  I'll  bring  them  together,  boy.  I'll  try.  They'll 
not  blame  me.  They'll  not  object  to  me.  They'll  not  mind 
what  I  do,  if  it's  wrong.  I'm  only  Mr.  Dick.  And  who 
minds  Dick  .^  Dick's  nobody.  Whoo  !"  He  blew  a  slight, 
contemptuous  breath,  as  if  he  blew  himself  away. 

It  was  fortunate  he  had  proceeded  so  far  with  his  mystery, 
for  we  heard  the  coach  stop  at  the  little  garden  gate,  which 
brought  my  aunt  and  Dora  home. 

"  Not  a  word,  boy  !"  he  pursued  in  a  whisper;  "  leave  all 
the  blame  with  Dick — simple  Dick — mad  Dick.  I  have 
been  thinking,  sir,  for  some  time  that  I  was  getting  it,  and 
now  I  have  got  jt.  After  what  you  have  said  to  me,  I  am 
sure  I  have  got  it.     All  right  !" 

Not  another  word  did  Mr.  Dick  utter  on  the  subject;  but 
he  made  a  very  telegraph  of  himself  for  the  next  half -hour 
(to  the  great  disturbance  of  my  aunt's  mind),  to  enjoin  in- 
violable secrecy  on  me. 

To  my  surprise  I  heard  no  more  about  it  for  some  two  or 
three  weeks,  though  I  was  sufficiently  interested  in  the  result 
of  his  endeavors;  descrying  a  strange  gleam  of  good  sense 
— I  say  nothing  of  good  feeling,  for  that  he  always  exhibited 
— in  the  conclusions  to  which  he  had  come.  At  last  I  began 
to  believe,  that,  in  the  flighty  and  unsettled  state  of  his  mind, 
he  had  either  forgotten  his  intention  or  abandoned  it. 

One  fair  evening,  when  Dora  was  not  inclined  to  go  out, 
my  aunt  and  I  strolled  up  to  the  Doctor's  cottage.  It  was 
•autumn,  when  there  were  no  debates  to  vex  the  evening  air; 
and  I  remember  how  the  leaves  smelt  like  our  garden  at 
Blunderstone  as  we  trod  them  under  foot,  and  how  the 
old,  unhappy  feeling,  seemed  to  go  by,  on  the  sighing 
wind. 

It  was  twilight  when  we  reached  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Strong 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  garden,  where  Mr.  Dick  yet 
lingered,  busy  with  his  knife,  helping  the  gardener  to  point 
some  stakes.  The  Doctor  was  engaged  with  some  one  in  his 
study;  but  the  visitor  would  be  gone  directly,   Mrs.  Strong 


648  DAVID   COPPERFIELD.* 

said,  and  begged  us  to  remain  and  see  him.  We  went  into 
the  drawing-room  with  her,  and  sat  down  by  the  darkening 
window.  There  was  never  any  ceremony  about  the  visits 
of  such  old  friends  and  neighbors  as  we  were. 

We  had  not  sat  here  many  minutes,  when  Mrs.  Markleham, 
who  usually  contrived  to  be  in  a  fuss  about  something,  came 
bustling  in,  with  her  newspaper  in  her  hand,  and  said,  out 
of  breath,  *'  My  goodness  gracious,  Annie,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  there  was  some  one  in  the  study  !" 

"  My  dear  mamma,"  she  quietly  returned,  "  how  could  I 
know  that  you  desired  the  information  ?" 

"  Desired  the  information  !"  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  sinking 
on  the  sofa.     *'  I  never  had  such  a  turn  in  all  my  life  !" 

*'  Have  you  been  to  the  study  then,  mamma  ?"  asked 
Annie. 

'^  Been  to  the  study,  my  dear  !"  she  returned,  emphatically. 
— "  Indeed  I  have  !  I  came  upon  the  amiable  creature — if 
you'll  imagine  my  feelings,  Miss  Trotwood  and  David — in 
the  act  of  making  his  will." 

Her  daughter  looked  round  from  the  window  quickly. 

"  In  the  act,  my  dear  Annie,"  repeated  Mrs.  Markleham, 
spreading  the  newspaper  on  her  lap  like  a  table-cloth,  and 
patting  her  hands  upon  it,  "  of  making  his  last  Will  and 
Testament.  The  foresight  and  affection  of  the  dear!  I 
must  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  really  must,  in  justice  to  the 
darling — for  he  is  nothing  less  ! — tell  you  how  it  was.  Per- 
haps you  know.  Miss  Trotwood,  that  there  is  never  a  candle 
lighted  in  this  house,  until  one's  eyes  are  literally  falling  out 
of  one's  head  with  being  stretched  to  read  the  paper.  And 
that  there  is  not  a  chair  in  this  house,  in  which  a  paper  can 
be  what  /call  read,  except  one  in  the  study.  This  took  me 
to  the  study,  where  I  saw  a  light.  I  opened  the  door.  In 
company  with  the  dear  Doctor  were  two  professional  people, 
evidently  connected  with  the  law,  and  they  were  all  three 
standing  at  the  table:  the  darling  Doctor  pen  in  hand.  '  This 
simply  expresses  then,'  said  the  Doctor — Annie,  my  love, 
attend  to  the  very  words — '  this  simply  expresses,  then,  gen- 
tlemen, the  confidence  I  have  in  Mrs.  Strong,  and  gives  her 
all  unconditionally  ?'  One  of  the  professional  people  re- 
plied, *  And  gives  her  all  unconditionally.'  Upon  that, 
with  the  r^atural  feelings  of  a  mother,  I  said,  '  Good  God,  I 
beg  your  pardon  !'  fell  over  the  doorstep,  and  came  away 
through  the  little  back  passage  where  cne  panrry  is. " 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  649 

Mrs.  Strong  opened  the  window,  and  went  out  into  the 
veranda,  where  she  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar. 

"  But  now  isn't  it,  Miss  Trotwood,  isn't  it,  David,  invig- 
orating," said  Mrs.  Markleham,  mechanically  following  her 
with  her  eyes,  "  to  find  a  man  at  Dr.  Strong's  time  of  life, 
with  the  strength  of  mind  to  do  this  kind  of  thing  ?  It 
only  shows  how  right  I  was.  I  said  to  Annie,  when  Dr. 
Strong  paid  a  very  flattering  visit  to  myself,  and  made  her 
the  subject  of  a  declaration  and  an  offer,  I  said,  '  My  dear, 
there  is  no  doubt  whatever,  in  my  opinion,  with  reference  to 
a  suitable  provision  for  you,  that  Doctor  Strong  will  do 
more  than  he  binds  himself  to  do.'  " 

Here  the  bell  rang,  and  we  heard  the  sound  of  the  visit- 
ors' feet  as  they  went  out. 

"  It's  all  over,  no  doubt,"  said  the  Old  Soldier,  after  listen- 
ing; "  the  dear  creature  has  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered, 
and  his  mind  is  at  rest.  Well  it  may  be!  What  a  mind! 
Annie,  my  love,  I  am  going  to  the  study  with  my  paper,  for 
I  am  a  poor  creature  without  news.  Miss  Trotwood,  David, 
pray  come  and  see  the  Doctor." 

I  was  conscious  of  Mr.  Dick's  standing  in  the  shadow  of 
the  room,  shutting  up  his  knife,  when  we  accompanied  her 
to  the  study;  and  of  my  aunt's  rubbing  her  nose  violently, 
by  the  way,  as  a  mild  vent  for  her  intolerance  of  our  mili- 
tary friend;  but  who  got  first  into  the  study,  or  how  Mrs. 
Markleham  settled  herself  in  a  moment  in  her  easy  chair, 
or  how  my  aunt  and  I  came  to  be  left  together  near  the  door 
(unless  her  eyes  were  quicker  than  mine,  and  she  held  me 
back)  I  have  forgotten,  if  I  ever  knew.  But  this  I  know — 
that  we  saw  the  Doctor  before  he  saw  us,  sitting  at  his  table, 
among  the  folio  volumes  in  which  he  delighted,  resting  his 
head  calmly  on  his  hand.  That,  in  the  same  moment  we 
saw  Mrs.  Strong  glide  in,  pale  and  trembling.  That  Mr. 
Dick  supported  her  on  his  arm.  That  he  laid  his  other 
hand  upon  the  Doctor's  arm,  causing  him  to  look  up  with  an 
abstracted  air.  That,  as  the  Doctor  moved  his  head,  his 
wife  dropped  on  one  knee  at  his  feet,  and,  with  her  hands 
imploringly  lifted,  fixed  upon  his  face  the  memorable  look 
I  had  never  forgotten.  That  at  this  sight  Mrs.  Markleham 
dropped  the  newspaper,  and  stared  more  like  a  figure-head 
intended  for  a  ship  to  be  called  The  Astonishment,  than  any- 
thing else  I  can  think  of. 

The  gentleness  of  the  Doctor's  manner  and  surprise,  the 


6so  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

dignity  that  mingled  with  the  suppUcating  attitude  of  his  wife, 
the  amiable  concern  of  Mr.  Dick,  and  the  earnestness  with 
which  my  aunt  said  to  herself,  *'  T/ia^  man  mad  ?"  (trium- 
phantly expressive  of  the  misery  from  which  she  had  saved 
him),  I  see  and  hear,  rather  than  remember,  as  I  write 
about  it. 

"  Doctor  !"  said  Mr.  Dick.  "  What  is  it  that's  amiss  ? 
Look  here  !" 

"  Annie  !"  cried  the  Doctor;  "not  at  my  feet,  my  dear  !" 

"  Yes  !"  she  said.  "  I  beg  and  pray  that  no  one  will  leave 
the  room  !  Oh,  my  husband  and  father,  break  this  long 
silence.  Let  us  both  know  what  it  is  that  has  come  be- 
tween us  !" 

Mrs.  Markleham,  by  this  time  recovering  the  power  of 
speech,  and  seeming  to  swell  with  family  pride  and  motherly 
indignation,  here  exclaimed,  "Annie,  get  up  immediately, 
and  don't  disgrace  everybody  belonging  to  you  by  humbling 
yourself  like  that,  unless  you  wish  to  see  me  go  out  of  my 
mind  on  the  spot!" 

"  Mamma!"  returned  Annie.  "  Waste  no  words  on  me,  for 
my  appeal  is  to  my  husband,  and  even  you  are  nothing  here.'* 

"  Nothing  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Markleham.  "  Me,  nothing! 
The  child  has  taken  leave  of  her  senses.  Please  to  get  me 
a  glass  of  water  !" 

I  was  too  attentive  to  the  Doctor  and  his  wife  to  give  any 
heed  to  this  request;  and  it  made  no  impression  on  anybody 
else;  so  Mrs.  Markleham  panted,  stared,  and  fanned  herself. 

"  Annie  !"  said  the  Doctor,  tenderly  taking  her  in  his 
hands.  "  My  dear  !  If  any  unavoidable  change  has  come, 
in  the  sequence  of  time,  upon  our  married  life,  you  are  not 
to  blame.  The  fault  is  mine,  and  only  mine.  There  is  no 
change  in  my  affection,  admiration  and  respect.  I  wish  to 
make  you  happy.  I  truly  love  and  honor  you.  Rise,  Annie, 
pray  !" 

But  she  did  not  rise.  After  looking  at  him  for  a  little 
while,  she  sank  down  closer  to  him,  laid  her  arm  across  his 
knee,  and  dropping  her  head  upon  it,  said: 

"If  I  have  any  friend  here,  who  can  speak  one  word  for 
me,  or  for  my  husband,  in  this  matter;  if  I  have  any  friend 
here,  who  can  give  a  voice  to  any  suspicion  that  my  heart 
has  sometimes  whispered  tome;  if  I  have  any  friend  here, 
who  honors  my  husband,  or  has  ever  cared  for  me,  and  has 
anything  within  his  knowledge,  no  matter  what  it  is,  that 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  651 

may  help  to  mediate  between  us,  I  implore  that  friend  to 
speak  !" 

There  was  a  profound  silence.  After  a  few  minutes  of 
painful  hesitation,  I  broke  the  silence. 

"  Mrs.  Strong,"  I  said,  "  there  is  something  within  my 
knowledge,  which  I  have  been  earnestly  entreated  by  Doctor 
Strong  to  conceal,  and  have  concealed  until  to-night  But, 
I  believe  the  time  has  come  when  it  would  be  mistaken  faith 
and  delicacy  to  conceal  it  any  longer,  and  when  your  appeal 
absolves  me  from  his  injunction." 

She  turned  her  face  toward  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  knew 
that  I  was  right.  I  could  not  have  resisted  its  entreaty,  if 
the  assurance  that  it  gave  me  had  been  less  convincing. 

"  Oilr  future  peace,"  she  said,  "  may  be  in  your  hands.  1 
trust  it  confidently  to  your  not  suppressing  anything.  I 
know  beforehand  that  nothing  you,  or  any  one,  can  tell  me, 
will  show  my  husband's  noble  heart  in  any  other  light  than 
one.  Howsoever  it  may  seem  to  you  to  touch  me,  disregard 
that.  I  will  speak  for  myself,  before  him,  and  before  God, 
afterwards." 

Thus  earnestly  besought,  I  made  no  reference  to  the  Doc- 
tor for  his  permission,  but,  without  any  other  compromise  of 
the  truth  than  a  little  softening  of  the  coarseness  of  Uriah 
Heep,  related  plainly  what  had  passed  in  that  same  room 
that  night.  The  staring  of  Mrs.  Markleham  during  the 
whole  narration,  and  the  shrill,  sharp  interjections  with 
which  she  occasionally  interrupted  it,  defy  description. 

When  I  had  finished,  Annie  remained  for  some  few  mo- 
ments silent,  with  her  head  bent  down,  as  I  have  described. 
Then  she  took  the  Doctor's  hand  (he  was  sitting  in  the  same 
attitude  as  when  we  had  entered  the  room),  and  pressed  it 
to  her  breast,  and  kissed  it.  Mr.  Dick  softly  raised  her  ; 
and  she  stood,  when  she  began  to  speak,  leaning  on  him, 
and  looking  down  upon  her  husband,  from  whom  she  never 
turned  her  eyes. 

"  All  that  has  ever  been  in  my  mind,  since  I  was  married,!* 
she  said,  in  a  low,  submissive,  tender  voice,  "  I  will  lay  bare 
before  you.  I  could  not  live  and  have  one  reservation, 
knowing  what  I  know  now," 

"  Nay,  Annie,"  said  the  Doctor,  mildly,  "  I  have  never 
doubted  you,  my  child.  There  is  no  need  ;  indeed  there  is 
no  need,  my  dear." 

"  There  is  great  need,"  she  answered,  in   the  same  way. 


652  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

*'  that  I  should  open  my  whole  heart  before  the  soul  of  gener- 
osity and  truth,  whom,  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day,  I  have 
loved  and  venerated  more  and  more,  as  Heaven  knows  !  " 

"  Really,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Markleham,  "  if  I  have  any 
discretion  at  all — " 

("  Which  you  haven't,  you  Marplot,"  observed  my  aunt, 
in  an  indignant  whisper.) 

— "  I  must  be  permitted  to  observe  that  it  cannot  be  req- 
uisite to  enter  into  these  details." 

"  No  one  but  my  husband  can  judge  of  that,  mamma,"  said 
Annie,  without  removing  her  eyes  from  his  face,  "  and  he 
will  hear  me.  If  I  say  anything  to  give  you  pain,  mamma, 
forgive  me.  I  have  borne  pain  first,  often  and  long,  my- 
self." 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Markleham. 

"  When  I  was  very  young,"  said  Annie,  "  quite  a  little 
child,  my  first  associations  with  knowledge  of  any  kind  were 
inseparable  from  a  patient  friend  and  teacher — the  friend  of 
my  dead  father — who  was  always  dear  to  me.  I  can  re- 
member nothing  that  I  know,  without  remembering  him. 
lie  stored  my  mind  with  its  first  treasures,  and  stamped  his 
character  upon  them  all.  They  never  could  have  been,  I 
think,  as  good  as  they  have  been  to  me,  if  I  had  taken  them 
from  any  other  hands." 

"  Makes  her  mother  nothing  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Markle- 
ham. 

*'  Not  so,  mamma,"  said  Annie;  "but  I  make  him  what  he 
is.  I  must  do  that.  As  I  grew  up,  he  occupied  the  same 
place  still.  I  was  proud  of  his  interest :  deeply,  fondly, 
gratefully  attached  to  him.  I  looked  up  to  him  I  can 
hardly  describe  how — as  a  father,  as  a  guide,  as  one  whose 
praise  was  different  from  all  other  praise,  as  one  in  whom  I 
could  have  trusted  and  confided,  if  I  had  doubted  all  the 
world.  You  know,  mamma,  how  young  and  inexperienced  I 
was,  when  you  presented  him  before  me,  of  a  sudden,  as  a 
lover." 

"  I  have  mentioned  the  fact,  fifty  times  at  least,  to  every- 
body here  !  "  said  Mrs.  Markleham. 

("  Then  hold  your  tongue,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  and  don't 
mention  it  any  more  !  "  muttered  my  aunt.) 

"  It  was  so  great  a  change  :  so  great  a  loss,  I  felt  it,  at 
first,"  said  Annie,  still  preserving  the  same  look  and  tone, 
"that  I  was  agitated  and  distressed.     I  was  but  a  girl;  and 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  653 

when  so  great  a  change  came  in  the  character  in  which  I 
had  so  long  looked  up  to  him,  I  think  I  was  sorry.  But 
nothing  could  have  made  him  what  he  used  to  be  again;  and 
I  was  proud  he  should  think  me  so  worthy,  and  we  were 
married." 

" — At  Saint  Alphage,  Canterbury,"  observed  Mrs.  Mark- 
leham. 

("  Confound  the  woman  !  "  said  my  aunt,  "  she  wc?n'^  be 
quiet !  ") 

"  I  never  thought,"  proceeded  Annie,  with  a  heightened 
color,  "  of  any  worldly  gain  that  my  husband  would  bring 
to  me.  My  young  heart  had  no  room  in  its  homage  for  any 
such  poor  reference.  Mamma,  forgive  me  when  I  say  it  was 
you  who  first  presented  to  my  mind  the  thought  that  any 
one  could  wrong  me,  and  wrong  him  by  such  a  cruel  sus- 
picion." 

"Me!"  cried  Mrs.  Markleham. 

("Ah!  You,  to  be  sure!"  observed  my  aunt,  "and  you 
can't  fan  it  away,  my  military  friend!") 

"It  was  the  first  unhappiness  of  my  life,"  said  Annie. 
"  It  was  the  first  occasion  of  every  unhappy  moment  I  have 
known.  Those  moments  have  been  more,  of  late,  than  I 
can  count;  but  not — my  generous  husband! — not  for  the 
reason  you  suppose;  for  in  my  hea.rt  there  is  not  a  thought, 
a  recollection,  or  a  hope,  that  any  power  could  separate  from 
you!" 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  as 
beautiful  and  true,  I  thought,  as  any  spirit.  The  Doctor 
looked  on  her,  henceforth,  as  steadfastly  as  she  on  him. 

"  Mamma  is  blameless,"  she  went  on,  "  of  having  ever  urged 
you  for  herself,  and  she  is  blameless  in  intention  everyway, 
I  am  sure, — but  when  I  saw  how  many  importunate  claims 
that  were  no  claims  were  pressed  upon  you  in  my  name; 
how  you  were  traded  on  in  my  name  ;  how  generous  you 
were,  and  how  Mr.  Wickfield,  who  had  your  welfare  very 
much  at  heart,  resented  it;  the  first  sense  of  my  exposure  to 
the  mean  suspicion  that  my  tenderness  was  bought — and 
sold  to  you,  of  all  men  on  earth — fell  upon  me,  like  unmer- 
ited disgrace,  in  which  I  forced  you  to  participate.  I  can- 
not tell  you  what  it  was — mamma  cannot  imagine  what  it  was 
— to  have  this  dread  and  trouble  always  on  my  mind,  yet 
know  in  my  own  soul  that  on  my  marriage- day  I  crowned 
the  love  and  honor  of  my  life!" 


^54  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  A  specimen  of  the  thanks  one  gets,"  cried  Mrs.  Markle- 
ham,  in  tears,  "  for  taking  care  of  one's  family!  I  wish  I 
was  a  Turk!" 

("  I  wish  you  were,  with  all  my  heart — and  in  your  native 
country!"  said  my  aunt.) 

"It  was  at  that  time  that  mamma  was  most  solicitous 
about  my  Cousin  Maldon.  I  had  liked  him:"  she  spoke 
softly,  but  without  any  hesitation:  "very  much.  We  had 
been  little  lovers  once.  If  circumstances  had  not  happened 
otherwise,  I  might  have  come  to  persuade  myself  that  I 
really  loved  him,  and  might  have  married  him,  and  been 
most  wretched.  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like 
unsuitability  of  mind  and  purpose." 

I  pondered  on  these  words,  even  while  I  was  studiously 
attending  to  what  followed,  as  if  they  had  some  particular 
interest,  or  some  strange  application  that  I  could  not  di- 
vine. "  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuit- 
abiUty  of  mind  and  purpose" — "  no  disparity  in  marriage 
like  unsuitability  of  mind  and  purpose." 

"  There  is  nothing,"  said  Annie,  "  that  we  have  in  com- 
mon. I  have  long  found  that  there  is  nothing.  If  I  were 
thankful  to  my  husband  for  no  more,  instead  of  for  so  much, 
I  should  be  thankful  to  him  for  having  saved  me  from  the 
first  mistaken  impulse  of  my  undisciplined  heart." 

She  stood  quite  still,  before  the  Doctor,  and  spoke  with 
an  earnestness  that  thrilled  me.  Yet  her  voice  was  just  as 
quiet  as  before. 

"  When  he  was  waiting  to  be  the  object  of  your  munifi- 
cence, so  freely  bestowed  for  my  sake,  and  when  I  was  un- 
happy in  the  mercenary  shape  I  was  made  to  wear,  I  thought 
it  would  have  become  him  better  to  have  worked  his  own 
way  on.  I  thought  that  if  I  had  been  he,  I  would  have  tried 
to  do  it,  at  the  cost  of  almost  any  hardship.  But  I  thought 
no  worse  of  him,  until  the  night  of  his  departure  for  India. 
That  night  I  knew  he  had  a  false  and  thankless  heart.  I 
saw  a  double  meaning,  then,  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  scrutiny  of 
me.  I  perceived,  for  the  first  time,  the  dark  suspicion  that 
shadowed  my  life." 

"Suspicion,  Annie!"  said  the  Doctor.     "No,  no,  no!" 

"  In  your  mind  there  was  none,  I  know,  my  husband!" 
she  returned.  "  And  when  I  came  to  you,  that  night,  to  lay 
down  all  my  load  of  shame  and  grief,  and  knew  that  I  had 
to  tell,  that,  underneath  your  roof,  one  of  my  own  kindred, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


655 


to  whom  you  had  been  a  benefactor,  for  the  love  of  me,  had 
spoken  to  me  words  that  should  have  found  no  utterance,  even 
if  I  had  been  the  weak  and  mercenary  wretch  he  thought  me 
— my  mind  revolted  from  the  taint  the  very  tale  conveyed.  It 
died  upon  my  lips,  and  from  that  hour  till  now  has  never 
passed  them." 

Mrs.  Markleham,  with  a  short  groan,  leaned  back  in  her 
easy  chair;  and  retired  behind  her  fan,  as  if  she  were  never 
coming  out  any  more. 

"  I  have  never,  but  in  your  presence,  interchanged  a  word 
with  him  from  that  time;  then,  only  when  it  has  been  neces- 
sary for  the  avoidance  of  this  explanation.  Years  have 
passed  since  he  knew,  from  me,  what  his  situation  here  was. 
The  kindnesses  you  have  secretly  done  for  his  advancement, 
and  then  disclosed  to  me,  for  my  surprise  and  pleasure,  have 
been,  you  will  believe,  but  aggravations  of  the  unhappiness 
and  burden  of  my  secret." 

She  sank  down  gently  at  the  Doctor's  feet,  though  he  did 
his  utmost  to  prevent  her;  and  said,  looking  up,  tearfully, 
into  his  face: 

**Do  not  speak  to  me  yet!  Let  me  say  a  little  more! 
Right  or  wrong,  if  this  were  to  be  done  again,  I  think  I 
should  do  just  the  same.  You  never  can  know  what  it  was 
to  be  devoted  to  you,  with  those  old  associations;  to  find 
that  any  one  could  be  so  hard  as  to  suppose  that  the  truth 
of  my  heart  was  bartered  away,  and  to  be  surrounded  by 
appearances  confirming  that  belief.  I  was  very  young,  and 
had  no  adviser.  Between  mamma  and  me,  in  all  relating  to 
you,  there  was  a  wide  division.  If  I  shrunk  into  myself, 
hiding  the  disrespect  I  had  undergone,  it  was  because  I  hon- 
ored you  so  much,  and  so  much  wished  that  you  should 
honor  me!" 

"  Annie,  my  pure  heart!"  said  the  Doctor,  "  my  dear  girl!" 

"A  little  more!  a  very  few  words  more!  I  used  to  think 
there  were  so  many  whom  you  might  have  married,  who 
would  not  have  brought  such  charge  and  trouble  on  you, 
and  who  would  have  made  your  home  a  worthier  home.  I 
used  to  be  afraid  that  I  had  better  hav^i  remained  your 
pupil,  and  almost  your  child.  I  used  to  fear  that  I  was  so 
unsuited  to  your  learning  and  wisdom.  If  all  this  made  me 
shrink  within  myself  (as  indeed  it  did),  when  I  had  that  to 
tell,  it  was  still  because  I  honored  you  so  much,  and  hope4 
that  you  might  gn^  day  honor  me," 


656  DAVID   COPPERriELD. 

"  That  day  has  shone  this  long  time,  Annie,*'  said  the 
Doctor,  ''and  can  have  but  one  long  night,  my  dear." 

"  Another  word!  I  afterwards  meant — steadfastly  meant, 
and  purposed  to  myself — to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  know- 
ing the  unworthiness  of  one  to  whom  you  had  been  so  good. 
And  now  a  last  word,  dearest  and  best  of  friends!  The 
cause  of  the  late  change  in  you,  which  I  have  seen  with  so 
much  pain  and  sorrow,  and  have  sometimes  referred  to  my 
old  apprehension — at  other  times  to  lingering  suppositions 
nearer  to  the  truth — has  been  made  clear  to-night;  and  by 
an  accident,  I  have  also  come  to  know,  to-night,  the  full 
measure  of  your  noble  trust  in  me,  even  under  that  mistake. 
I  do  not  hope  that  any  love  and  duty  I  may  render  in  re- 
turn, will  ever  make  me  worthy  of  your  priceless  confidence; 
but  with  all  this  knowledge  fresh  upon  me,  I  can  lift  my  eyes 
to  this  dear  face,  revered  as  a  father's,  loved  as  a  husband's, 
sacred  to  me  in  my  childhood  as  a  friend's,  and  solemnly  de- 
clare that  in  my  lightest  thought  I  have  never  wronged  you; 
never  wavered  in  the  love  and  fidelity  I  owe  you!" 

She  had  her  arms  around  the  Doctor's  neck,  and  he  leant 
his  head  down  over  her,  mingling  his  gray  hair  with  her 
dark  brown  tresses. 

"  Oh,  hold  me  to  your  heart,  my  husband!  Never  cast  me 
out!  Do  not  think  or  speak  of  disparity  between  us,  for 
there  is  none,  except  in  all  my  many  imperfections.  Every 
succeeding  year  I  have  known  this  better,  as  I  have  esteemed 
you  more  and  more.  Oh,  take  me  to  your  heart,  my  hus- 
band, for  my  love  was  founded  on  a  rock,  and  it  en- 
dures!" 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  my  aunt  walked  gravely  up  to 
Mr.  Dick,  without  at  all  hurrying  herself,  and  gave  him  a 
hug  and  a  sounding  kiss.  And  it  was  very  fortunate,  with  a 
view  to  his  credit,  that  she  did  so;  for  I  am  confident  that  I 
detected  him  at  that  moment  in  the  act  of  making  prepara- 
tions to  stand  on  one  leg,  as  an  appropriate  expression  of 
delight. 

"  You  are  a  remarkable  man,  Dick!"  said  my  aunt,  with  an 
air  of  unquaHfied  approbation;  "and  never  pretend  to  be 
anything  else,  for  I  know  better!" 

With  that,  my  aunt  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  nodded 
to  me;  and  we  three  stole  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and  came 
away. 

"  That's  a  settler  for  our  military  friend,  at  any  rate;"  said 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  657 

my  aunt,  on  the  way  home.  "  I  should  sleep  the  better  for 
that,  if  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  glad  of  !" 

'*  She  was  quite  overcome,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dick, 
with  great  commiseration. 

*'  What!  did  you  ever  see  a  crocodile  overcome?"  inquired 
my  aunt. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  crocodile,"  returned  Mr.  Dick, 
mildly. 

"  There  never  would  have  been  anything  the  matter,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  old  Animal,"  said  my  aunt,  with  strong 
emphasis.  "  It's  very  much  to  be  wished  that  some  mothers 
would  leave  their  daughters  alone  after  marriage,  and  not  be 
so  violently  affectionate.  They  seem  to  think  the  only  re- 
turn that  can  be  made  them  for  bringing  an  unfortunate 
young  woman  into  the  world — God  bless  my  soul,  as  if  she 
asked  to  be  brought,  or  wanted  to  come! — is  full  liberty  to 
worry  her  out  of  it  again.  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
Trot?" 

I  was  thinking  of  all  that  had  been  said.  My  mind  was 
still  running  on  some  of  the  expressions  used.  "  There  can 
be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuitability  of  mind  and 
purpose."  "  The  first  mistaken  impulse  of  an  undisciphned 
heart."  "  My  love  was  founded  on  a  rock."  But  we  were 
at  home;  and  the  trodden  leaves  were  lying  underfoot,  and 
the  autumn  wind  was  blowing. 


CHAPTER    XLVL 

INTELLIGENCE. 

I  MUST  have  been  married,  if  I  may  trust  to  my  imperfect 
memory  for  dates,  about  a  year  or  so,  when  one  evening,  as 
I  was  returning  from  a  solitary  walk,  thinking  of  the  book  I 
was  then  writing — for  my  success  had  steadily  increased 
with  my  steady  application,  and  I  was  engaged  at  that  time 
upon  my  first  work  of  fiction — I  came  past  Mrs.  Steerforth's 
house.  I  had  often  passed  it  before,  during  my  residence 
in  that  neighborhood,  though  never  when  I  could  choose 
another  road.  Howbeit,  it  did  sometimes  happen  that  it 
was  not  easy  to  find  another,  without  making  a  long  circuit; 
and  so  I  had  passed  that  way,  upon  the  whole,  pretty  often. 

I  had  never  done  more  than  glance  ft  the  haujse,^  4.%  \  went 


653  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

by  with  a  quickened  step.  It  had  been  uniformly  gloomy 
and  dull.  None  of  the  best  rooms  abutted  on  the  road;  and 
the  narrow,  heavily-framed,  old-fashioned  windows,  never 
cheerful  under  any  circumstances,  looked  very  dismal,  close 
shut,  and  with  their  blinds  always  drawn  down.  There  was 
a  covered  way  across  a  little  paved  court,  to  an  entrance 
that  was  never  used;  and  there  was  one  round  staircase  win- 
dow, at  odds  with  all  the  rest,  and  the  only  one  unshaded  by 
a  blind,  which  had  the  same  unoccupied  blank  look.  I  do 
not  remember  that  I  ever  saw  a  light  in  all  the  house.  If  I 
had  been  a  casual  passer-by,  I  should  have  probably  sup- 
posed that  some  childless  person  lay  dead  in  it.  If  I  had 
happily  possessed  no  knowledge  of  the  place,  and  had  seen 
it  often  in  that  changeless  state,  I  should  have  pleased  my 
fancy  with  many  ingenious  speculations,  I  dare  say. 

As  it  was,  I  thought  as  little  of  it  as  I  might.  But  my 
mind  could  not  go  by  it  and  leave  it,  as  my  body  did;  and 
it  usually  awakened  a  long  train  of  meditations.  Coming 
before  m«,  on  this  particular  evening  that  I  mention,  mingled 
with  the  childish  recollections  and  later  fancies,  the  ghosts 
of  half-formed  hopes,  the  broken  shadows  of  disappoint- 
ments dimly  seen  and  understood,  the  blending  of  experi- 
ence and  imagination,  incidental  to  the  occupation  with 
which  my  thoughts  had  been  busy,  it  was  more  than  com- 
monly suggestive.  I  fell  into  a  brown  study  as  I  walked  on, 
and  a  voice  at  my  side  made  me  start. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice,  too.  I  was  not  long  in  recollect- 
ing Mrs.  Steerforth's  little  parlor  maid,  who  had  formerly 
worn  blue  ribbons  in  her  cap.  She  had  them  out  now,  to 
adapt  herself,  I  suppose,  to  the  altered  character  of  the 
house;  and  wore  but  one  or  two  disconsolate  bows  of  sober 
brown. 

''  If  you  please,  sir,  would  you  have  the  goodness  to  walk 
in,  and  speak  to  Miss  Dartle  ?" 

"  Has  Miss  Dartle  sent  you  for  me?"  I  inquired. 

"  Not  to-night,  sir,  but  it's  just  the  same.  Miss  Dartle 
saw  you  pass  a  night  or  two  ago;  and  I  was  to  sit  at  work  on 
the  staircase,  and  when  I  saw  you  pass  again,  to  ask  you  to 
step  in  and  speak  to  her." 

I  turned  back,  and  inquired  of  my  conductor,  as  we  went 
along,  how  Mrs.  Steerforth  was.  She  said  her  lady  was  but 
poorly,  and  kept  her  own  room  a  great  deal. 

Wljen  wf  arrived  at  the  hguse,  I  was  directed  to  Miss 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  659 

Dartle  in  the  garden,  and  left  to  make  my  presence  known 
to  her  myself.  She  was  sitting  on  a  seat  at  one  end  of  a 
kind  of  terrace,  overlooking  the  great  city.  It  was  a  somber 
evening,  with  a  lurid  light  in  the  sky;  and  as  I  saw  the  pros- 
pect scowling  in  the  distance,  with  here  and  there  some 
larger  object  starting  up  in  the  sullen  glare,  I  fancied  it 
was  no  inq^t  companion  to  the  memory  of  this  fierce 
woman. 

She  saw  me  as  I  advanced,  and  rose  for  a  moment  to  re- 
ceive me.  I  thought  her,  then,  still  more  colorless  and  thin 
than  when  I  had  seen  her  last;  the  flashing  eyes  still  brighter, 
and  the  scar  still  plainer. 

Our  meeting  was  not  cordial.  We  had  parted  angrily  on 
the  last  occasion;  and  there  was  an  air  of  disdain  about  her, 
which  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal. 

"  I  am  told  you  wish  to  speak  to  me.  Miss  Dartle;"  said  I, 
standing  near  her,  with  my  head  upon  the  back  of  the  seat, 
and  declining  her  gesture  of  invitation  to  sit  down. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  she.    *'  Pray  has  this  girl  been  found?'* 

"No." 

**  And  yet  she  has  run  away!" 

I  saw  her  thin  lips  working  while  she  looked  at  me,  as  if 
they  were  eager  to  load  her  with  reproaches. 

"  Run  away?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes!  From  him,*'  she  said  with  a  laugh.  "  If  she  is  not 
found,  perhaps  she  never  will  be  found.    She  may  be  dead!" 

The  vaunting  cruelty  with  which  she  met  my  glance,  I 
never  saw  expressed  in  any  other  face  that  ever  I  have  seen. 

"  To  wish  her  dead,"  said  I,  "  may  be  the  kindest  wish 
that  one  of  her  own  sex  could  bestow  upon  her.  I  am  glad 
that  time  has  softened  you  so  much.  Miss  Dartle." 

She  condescended  to  make  no  reply,  but,  turning  on  me 
with  another  scornful  laugh,  said: 

"  The  friends  of  this  excellent  and  much-injured  young 
lady  are  friends  of  yours.  You  are  their  champion,  and 
assert  their  rights.  Do  you  wish  to  know  what  is  known  of 
her?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

She  rose  with  an  ill-favored  smile,  and,  taking  a  few  steps 
towards  a  wall  of  holly  that  was  near  at  hand,  dividing  the 
lawn  from  a  kitchen-garden,  said,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  Come 
here!" — as  if  she  were  calling  to  some  unclean  beast. 

"You  will  ^estrair  any  demonstrative  championship  M 


66o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

vengeance  in  this  place,  of  course,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?"  said 
she,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  me  with  the  same  expres- 
sion. 

I  inclined  my  head,  without  knowing  what  she  meant;  and 
she  said,  "Come  here!"  again;  and  returned,  followed  by 
the  respectable  Mr.  Littimer,  who,  with  undiminished  respec- 
tability, made  me  a  bow,  and  took  up  his  position  behind 
her.  The  air  of  wicked  grace:  of  triumph,  in  which,  strange 
to  say,  there  was  yet  something  feminine  and  alluring:  with 
which  she  reclined  upon  the  seat  between  us,  and  looked  at 
me,  was  worthy  of  a  cruel  Princess  in  a  Legend. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  imperiously,  without  glancing  at  him, 
and  touching  the  old  wound  as  it  throbbed:  perhaps,  in 
this  instance,  with  pleasure  rather  than  pain.  "  Tell  Mr. 
Copperfield  about  the  flight." 

"  Mr.  James  and  myself,  ma'am " 

"  Don't  address  yourself  to  me!  "  she  interrupted  with  a 
frown. 

"  Mr.  James  and  myself,  sir " 

"  Nor  to  me,  if  you  please,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Littimer,  without  being  at  all  discomposed,  signified 
by  a  slight  obeisance,  that  anything  that  was  most  agreeable 
to  us  was  most  agreeable  to  him  ;  and  began  again  : 

"  Mr.  James  and  myself  have  been  abroad  with  the  yoting 
woman,  ever  since  she  left  Yarmouth  under  Mr.  James's 
protection.  We  have  been  in  a  variety  of  places,  and  seen 
a  deal  of  foreign  country.  We  have  been  in  France,  Switzer- 
land, Italy,  in  fact,  almost  all  parts." 

He  looked  at  the  back  of  the  seat,  as  if  he  were  address- 
ing himself  to  that  ;  and  softly  played  upon  it  with  his 
hands,  as  if  he  were  striking  chords  upon  a  dumb  piano. 

*' Mr.  James  took  quite  uncommonly  to  the  young  woman; 
and  was  more  settled,  for  a  length  of  time,  than  I  have 
known  him  to  be  since  I  have  been  in  his  service.  The 
young  woman  was  very  improvable,  and  spoke  the  languages; 
and  wouldn't  have  been  known  for  the  same  country- 
person.  I  noticed  that  she  was  much  admired  wherever  we 
went." 

Miss  Dartle  put  her  hand  upon  her  side.  I  saw  him 
steal  a  glance  at  her,  and  slightly  smile  to  himself. 

"Very  much  admired,  indeed,  the  young  woman  was. 
What  with  her  dress;  what  with  the  air  and  sun;  what  with 
being  made  so  much  of;  what  with  this,  that,  and  the  other; 
her  merits  really  attracted  general  notice." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  66i 

He  made  a  short  pause.  Her  eyes  wandered  restlessly- 
over  the  distant  prospect,  and  she  bit  her  nether  lip  to  stop 
that  busy  mouth. 

Taking  his  hands  from  the  seat,  and  placing  one  of  them 
within  the  other,  as  he  settled  himself  on  one  leg,  Mr.  Litti- 
mer  proceeded,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  and  his  respectable 
head  a  little  advanced,  and  a  little  on  one  side  : 

"  The  young  woman  went  on  in  this  manner  for  some 
time,  being  occasionally  low  in  her  spirits,  until  I  think  she 
began  to  weary  Mr.  James  by  giving  way  to  her  low  spirits 
and  tempers  of  that  kind  ;  and  things  were  not  so  comfort- 
able. Mr.  James  he  began  to  be  restless  again.  The  more 
restless  he  got,  the  worse  she  got:  and  I  must  say,  for  my- 
self, that  I  had  a  very  difficult  time  of  it  indeed  between 
the  two.  Still  matters  were  patched  up  here,  and  made 
good  there,  over  and  over  again;  and  altogether  lasted,  I  am 
sure,  for  a  longer  time  than  anybody  could  have  expected." 

Recalling  her  eyes  from  the  distance,  she  looked  at  me 
again  now,  with  her  former  air.  Mr.  Littimer,  clearing  his 
throat  behind  his  hand  with  a  respectable  short  cough^ 
changed  legs,  and  went  on: 

"At  last,  when  there  had  been,  upon  the  whole,  a  good 
many  words  and  reproaches,  Mr.  James  he  set  off  one  morn- 
ing, from  the  neighborhood  of  Naples,  where  he  had  a 
villa  (the  young  woman  being  very  partial  to  the  sea),  and. 
Under  pretense  of  coming  back  in  a  day  or  so,  left  it  in 
charge  with  me  to  break  it  out,  that,  for  the  general  happi- 
ness of  all  concerned,  he  was  " — here  an  interruption  of  the 
short  cough — "  gone.  But  Mr.  James,  I  must  say,  certainly 
did  behave  extremely  honorable;  for  he  proposed  that  the 
young  woman  should  marry  a  very  respectable  person,  who 
was  fully  prepared  to  overlook  the  past,  and  who  was,  at 
least,  as  good  as  anybody  the  young  woman  could  have 
aspired  to  in  a  regular  way:  her  connexions  being  very 
common." 

He  changed  legs  again,  and  wetted  his  lips.  I  was  con- 
vinced that  the  scoundrel  spoke  of  himself,  and  I  saw  my 
conviction  reflected  in  Miss  Dartle's  face. 

"  This  I  also  had  it  in  charge  to  communicate.  I  was 
willing  to  do  anything  to  relieve  Mr.  James  from  his  diffi- 
culty, and  to  restore  harmony  between  himself  and  an 
affectionate  parent,  who  has   undergone  so  much  on  his 


662  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

account.  Therefore  I  undertook  the  commission.  The 
young  woman's  violence  when  she  came  to,  after  I  broke  the 
fact  of  his  departure,  was  beyond  all  expectations.  She 
was  quite  mad,  and  had  to  be  held  by  force;  or,  if  she 
couldn't  have  got  to  a  knife,  or  got  to  the  sea,  she'd  have 
beaten  her  head  against  the  marble  floor." 

Miss  Dartle,  leaning  back  upon  the  seat,  wijh  a  light  of 
exultation  in  her  face,  seemed  almost  to  caress  the  sounds 
this  fellow  had  uttered. 

"  But  when  I  came  to  the  second  part  of  what  had  been 
entrusted  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Littimer,  rubbing  his  hands,  un- 
easily, "  which  anybody  might  have  supposed  would  have 
been,  at  all  events,  appreciated  as  a  kind  intention,  then  the 
young  woman  came  out  in  her  true  color.  A  more  out- 
rageous person  I  never  did  see.  Her  conduct  was  surpris* 
ingly  bad.  She  had  no  more  gratitude,  no  more  feeling,  no 
more  patience,  no  more  reason  in  her,  than  a  stock  or  a 
stone.  If  I  hadn't  been  upon  my  guard,  I  am  convinced  she 
would  have  had  my  blood." 

"  I  think  the  better  of  her  for  it,"  said  I,  indignantly. 

Mr.  Littimer  bent  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  **  Indeed, 
sir  ? — But  you're  young  !"  and  resumed  his  narrative. 

"  It  was  necessary,  in  short,  for  a  time,  to  take  away  every- 
thing nigh  her,  that  she  could  do  herself  or  anybody  else, 
an  injury  with,  and  to  shut  her  up  close.  Notwithstanding 
which,  she  got  out  in  the  night,  forced  the  lattice  of  a  win- 
dow, that  I  had  nailed  up  myself;  dropped  on  a  vine  that 
was  trailed  below;  and  never  has  been  seen  or  heard  of,  to 
my  knowledge,  since." 

"  She  is  dead,  perhaps,"  said  Miss  Dartle,  with  a  smile,  as 
]f  she  could  have  spurned  the  body  of  the  ruined  girl. 

"She  may  have  drowned  herself,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Lit- 
timer, catching  at  an  excuse  for  addressing  himself  to  some- 
body. "  It's  very  possible.  Or,  she  may  have  had  assis- 
tance from  the  boatmen,  and  the  boatmen's  wives  and  chil- 
dren. Being  given  to  low  company,  she  was  very  much  in 
the  habit  of  talking  to  them  on  the  beach.  Miss  Dartle,  and 
sitting  by  their  boats.  I  have  known  her  do  it,  when  Mr. 
James  has  been  away,  whole  days.  Mr.  James  was  far  from 
pleased  to  find  out,  once,  that  she  had  told  the  children  she 
was  a  boatman's  daughter,  and  that  in  her  own  country, 
long  ago,  she  had  roamed  about  the  beach,  like  them." 

Oh,  Emily!     Unhappy  beauty!     What  a  picture  rose  be- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  66$ 

fore  me  of  her  sitting  on  the  far-off  shore,  among  the  chil- 
dren like  herself  when  she  was  innocent,  listening  to  little 
voices  such  as  might  have  called  her  Mother  had  she  been  a 
poor  man's  wife;  and  to  the  great  voice  of  the  sea,  with  its 
eternal  "  Never  more  !" 

"When  it  was  clear  that  nothing  could  be  done,  Miss  Dar- 
tle " 

"  Did  I  tell  you  not  to  speak  to  me  ?"  she  said,  with  stern 
contempt. 

"  You  spoke  to  me,  miss,"  he  replied.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don.    But  it's  my  service  to  obey." 

'*  Do  your  service,"  she  returned.  "  Finish  your  story, 
and  go  !" 

"  When  it  was  clear,"  he  said,  with  infinite  respectability, 
and  an  obedient  bow,  "  that  she  was  not  to  be  found,  I  went 
to  Mr.  James,  at  the  place  where  it  had  been  agreed  that  I 
should  write  to  him,  and  informed  him  of  what  had  occurred. 
Words  passed  between  us  in  consequence,  and  I  felt  it  due 
to  my  character  to  leave  him.  I  could  bear,  and  I  have 
borne,  a  great  deal  from  Mr.  James;  but  he  insulted  me  too 
far.  He  hurt  me.  Knowing  the  unfortunate  difference  be- 
tween himself  and  his  mother,  and  what  her  anxiety  of  mind 
was  likely  to  be,  I  took  the  liberty  of  coming  home  to  Eng- 
land, and  relating " 

"  For  money  which  I  paid  him,"  said  Miss  Dartle  to  me. 

"  Just  so,  ma'am — and  relating  what  I  knew.  I  am  not 
aware,"  said  Mr.  Littimer,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  that 
there  is  anything  else.  I  am  at  present  out  of  employment, 
and  should  be  happy  to  meet  with  a  respectable  situation." 

Miss  Dartle  glanced  at  me,  as  though  she  would  inquire 
if  there  were  anything  that  I  desired  to  ask.  As  there  was 
something  which  had  occurred  to  my  mind,  I  said  in  reply: 

"  I  could  wish  to  know  from  this — creature,"  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  utter  any  more  conciliatory  word,  "  whether 
they  intercepted  a  letter  that  was  written  to  her  from  home, 
or  whether  he  supposes  that  she  received  it  ?" 

He  remained  calm  and  silent,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  the  tip  of  every  finger  of  his  right  hand  deli- 
cately poised  against  the  tip  of  every  finger  of  his  left. 

Miss  Dartle  turned  her  head  disdainfully  towards  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  he  said,  awakening  from  his 
abstraction,  "but,  however  submissive  to  you,  I  have  my 
position  though  a  servant.     Mr.  Copperfield  and  you,  miss, 


664  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

are  different  people.  If  Mr.  Copperfield  wishes  to  know 
anything  from  me,  I  take  the  liberty  of  reminding  Mr.  Cop- 
perfield that  he  can  put  a  question  to  me.  I  have  a  char- 
acter to  maintain." 

After  a  momentary  struggle  with  myself,  I  turned  my  eyes 
upon  him,  and  said,  "  You  have  heard  my  question.  Con- 
sider it  addressed  to  yourself,  if  you  choose.  What  answer 
do  you  make  ?  " 

*^^  Sir,"  he  rejoined,  with  an  occasional  separation  and  re- 
union of  those  delicate  tips,  "my  answer  must  be  qualified  ; 
because,  to  betray  Mr.  James's  confidence  to  his  mother,  and 
to  betray  it  to  you,  are  two  different  actions.  It  is  not 
probable,  I  consider,  that  Mr.  James  would  encourage 
the  receipt  of  letters  likely  to  increase  low  spirits  and  un- 
pleasantness ;  but  further  than  that,  sir,  I  should  wish  to 
avoid  going." 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  inquired  Miss  Dartle  of  me. 

I  indicated  that  I  had  nothing  more  to  say.  "  Except," 
I  added,  as  I  saw  him  moving  off,  "  that  I  understand 
this  fellow's  part  in  the  wicked  story,  and  that,  as  I  shall 
make  it  known  to  the  honest  man  who  has  been  her  father 
from  her  childhood,  I  would  recommend  him  to  avoid  going 
too  much  into  public." 

He  had  stopped  the  moment  I  began,  and  had  listened 
with  his  usual  repose  of  manner. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  But  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  say,  sir,  that 
there  are  neither  slaves  nor  slave-drivers  in  this  country, 
and  that  people  are  not  allowed  to  take  the  law  into  their  own 
hands.  If  they  do,  it  is  more  to  their  peril,  I  believe,  than 
to  other  people's.  Consequently  speaking,  I  am  not  at  all 
afraid  of  going  wherever  I  may  wish,  sir." 

With  that,  he  made  me  a  polite  bow;  and,  with  another 
to  Miss  Dartle,  went  away  through  the  arch  in  the  wall  of 
holly  by  which  he  had  come.  Miss  Dartle  and  I  re- 
garded each  other  for  a  little  while  in  silence;  her  manner 
being  exactly  what  it  was,  when  she  had  produced  the 
man. 

"  He  says  besides,"  she  observed,  with  a  slow  curling  of 
her  lip,  "that  his  master,  as  he  hears,  is  coasting  Spain;  and 
this  done,  is  away  to  gratify  his  seafaring  tastes  till  he  is 
weary.  But  that  is  of  no  interest  to  you.  Between  these 
two  proud  persons,  mother  and  son,  there  is  a  wider  breach 
than  before,  and  little  hope  of  its  healing,  for  they  are  one 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  665 

at  heart,  and  time  makes  each  obstinate  and  imperious. 
Neither  is  this  of  any  interest  to  you;  but  it  introduces  what 
I  wish  to  say.  This  devil  whom  you  make  an  angel 
of,  I  mean  this  low  girl  whom  he  picked  out  of  the  tide- 
mud,"  with  her  black  eyes  full  upon  me,  and  her  passionate 
finger  up,  "  may  be  alive, — for  I  believe  some  common  things 
are  hard  to  die.  If  she  is,  you  will  desire  to  have  a  pearl  of 
such  price  found  and  taken  care  of.  We  desire  that,  too;^ 
that  he  may  not  by  any  chance  be  made  her  prey  again.  So 
far,  we  are  united  in  one  interest;  and  that  is  why  I,  who 
would  do  her  any  mischief  that  so  coarse  a  wretch  is  capa- 
ble of  feeling,  have  sent  for  you  to  hear  what  you  have 
heard." 

I  saw,  by  the  change  in  her  face,  that  some  one  was  ad- 
vancing behind  me.  It  was  Mrs.  Steerforth,  who  gave  me 
her  hand  more  coldly  than  of  yore,  and  with  an  augmenta- 
tion of  her  former  stateliness  of  manner  ;  but  still,  I  per- 
ceived— and  I  was  touched  by  it — with  an  ineffaceable  re- 
membrance of  my  old  love  for  her  son.  She  was  greatly 
altered.  Her  fine  figure  was  far  less  upright,  her  handsome 
face  was  deeply  marked,  and  her  hair  was  almost  white.  But 
when  she  sat  down  on  the  seat,  she  was  a  handsome  lady 
still ;  and  well  I  knew  the  bright  eye  with  its  lofty  look, 
that  had  been  a  light  in  my  very  dreams  at  school. 

"  Is  Mr.  Copperfield  informed  of  everything,  Rosa?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  has  he  heard  Littimer  himself?" 

"Yes;  I  have  told  him  why  you  wished  it." 

"  You  are  a  good  girl.  I  have  had  some  slight  corres- 
pondence with  your  former  friend,  sir,"  addressing  me,  "  but 
it  has  not  restored  his  sense  of  duty  or  natural  obligation. 
Therefore  I  have  no  other  object  in  this,  than  what  Rosa 
has  mentioned.  If,  by  the  course  which  may  relieve  the 
mind  of  the  decent  man  you  brought  here  (for  whom  I  am 
sorry — I  can  say  no  more),  my  son  may  be  saved  from  again 
falling  into  the  snares  of  a  designing  enemy,  well!" 

She  drew  herself  up,  and  sat  looking  straight  before  her, 
far  away. 

"  Madam,"  I  said  respectfully;  "  I  understand.  I  assure 
you  I  am  in  no  danger  of  putting  any  strained  construction 
on  your  motives.  But  I  must  say,  even  to  you,  having 
known  this  injured  family  from  childhood,  that  if  you  sup- 
pose the  girl,  so  deeply  wronged,  has  not  been  cruelly  de- 


666  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

luded,  and  would  not  rather  die  a  hundred  deaths  than  take 
a  cup  of  water  from  your  son's  hand  now,  you  cherish  a  ter- 
rible mistake." 

"Well,  Rosa,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  as  the  other 
was  about  to  interpose,  "  it  is  no  matter!  Let  it  be.  You 
are  married,  sir,  I  am  told?" 

I  answered  that  I  had  been  some  time  married. 
»    "  And  are  doing  well?     I  hear  little  in  the  quiet  life  I  lead, 
but  I  understand  you  are  beginning  to  be  famous." 

"  I  have  been  very  fortunate,"  I  said,  "  and  find  my  name 
connected  with  some  praise." 

"  You  have  no  mother?" — in  a  softened  voice. 

"No." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  she  returned.  "  She  would  have  been 
proud  of  you.     Good  night!" 

I  took  the  hand  she  held  out  with  a  dignified,  unbending 
air,  and  it  was  as  calm  in  mine  as  if  her  breast  had  been  at 
peace.  Her  pride  could  still  its  very  pulses,  it  appeared, 
and  draw  the  placid  veil  before  her  face,  through  which  she 
sat  looking  straight  before  her  on  the  far  distance. 

As  I  moved  away  from  them  along  the  terrace,  I  could 
not  help  observing  how  steadily  they  both  sat  gazing  on  the 
prospect,  and  how  it  thickened  and  closed  around  them. 
Here  and  there,  some  early  lamps  were  seen  to  twinkle  in 
the  distant  city;  and  in  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  sky  the 
lurid  light  still  hovered.  But,  from  the  greater  part  of  the 
broad  valley  interposed,  a  mist  was  rising  like  a  sea,  which, 
mingled  with  the  darkness,  made  it.  seem  as  if  the  gathering 
waters  would  encompass  them.  I  have  reason  to  remember 
this,  and  think  of  it  with  awe;  for  before  I  looked  upon 
those  two  again,  a  stormy  sea  had  risen  to  their  feet. 

Reflecting  on  what  had  been  thus  told  me,  I  felt  it  right 
that  it  should  be  communicated  to  Mr.  Peggotty.  On  the 
following  evening  I  went  into  London  in  quest  of  him.  He 
was  always  wandering  about  from  place  to  place,  with  his 
one  object  of  recovering  his  niece  before  him;  but  was 
more  in  London  than  elsewhere.  Often  and  often,  now, 
had  I  seen  him  in  the  dead  of  night  passing  along  the  streets, 
searching  among  the  few  who  loitered  out  of  doors  at  those 
vmtimely  hours,  for  what  he  dreaded  to  find. 

He  kept  a  lodging  over  the  little  chandler's  shop  in  Hun- 
gerford  Market,  which  I  have  had  occasion  to  mention  more 
than  once,  and  from  which  he  first  went  forth  upon  his 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  667 

errand  of  mercy.  Hither  I  directed  my  walk.  On  making 
inquiry  for  him,  I  learned  from  the  people  of  the  house  that 
he  had  not  gone  out  yet,  and  I  should  find  him  in  his  room 
up-stairs. 

He  was  sitting  reading  by  a  window  in  which  he  kept  a 
few  plants.  The  room  was  very  neat  and  orderly.  I  saw  in 
a  moment  that  it  was  always  kept  prepared  for  her  recep- 
tion, and  that  he  never  went  out  but  he  thought  it  possible 
he  might  bring  her  home.  He  had  not  heard  my  tap  at  the 
door,  and  only  raised  his  eyes  when  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

''  Mas'r  Davy!  Thankee,  sir!  thankee  hearty,  for  this 
visit!     Sit  ye  down.     You're  kindly  welcome,  sir!" 

"  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said  I,  taking  the  chair  he  handed  me, 
"don't  expect  much!     I  have  heard  some  news." 

"OfEm'ly?" 

He  put  his  hand,  in  a  nervous  manner,  on  his  mouth,  and 
turned  pale,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  mine. 

"  It  gives  no  clue  to-where  she  is;  but  she  is  not  with  him." 

He  sat  down,  looking  intently  at  me,  and  listened  in  pro- 
found silence  to  all  I  had  to  tell.  I  well  remember  the 
sense  of  dignity,  beauty  even,  with  which  ttie  patient  gravity 
of  his  face  impressed  me,  when,  having  gradually  removed 
his  eyes  from  mine,  he  sat  looking  downward,  leaning  his 
forehead  on  his  hand.  He  offered  no  interruption,  but  re- 
mained throughout  perfectly  still.  He  seemed  to  pursue 
her  figure  through  the  narrative,  and  to  let  every  other  shape 
go  by  him,  as  if  it  were  nothing. 

When  I  had  done,  he  shaded  his  face,  and  continued 
silent.  I  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a  little  while,  and 
occupied  myself  with  the  plants. 

"  How  do  you  fare  to  feel  about  it,  Mas'r  Davy  ?"  he  in- 
quired, at  length. 

"  I  think  that  she  is  living,"  I  replied. 

"  I  doen't  know.     Maybe  the  first  shock  was   too  rough^ 

and  in  the  wildness  of  her  art !     That  there  blue  water 

as  she  used  to  speak  on.  Could  she  have  thowt  o'  that  so 
many  year,  because  it  was  to  be  her  grave  !" 

He  said  this,  musing,  in  a  low,  frightened  voice;  and 
walked  across  the  little  room. 

"And  yet,"  he  added,  "Mas'r  Davy,  I  have  felt  so  sure  as 
she  was  living — I  have  know'd,  awake  and  sleeping,  as  it  was 
so  trew  that  I  should  find  her — I  have  been  so  led  on  by  it. 


668  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  held  up  by  it — that  I  doen't  beHeve  I  can  have  been 
deceived.     No!  Em'ly's  alive!" 

He  put  his  hand  down  firmly  on  the  table,  and  set  his 
sunburnt  face  into  a  resolute  expression, 

"My  niece,  Em'ly,  is  alive,  sir!"  he  said,  steadfastly.  *' I 
doen't  know  wheer  it  comes  from,  or  how  'tis,  but  /  am  told 
as  she's  alive!" 

He  looked  almost  like  a  man  inspired,  as  he  said  it.  I 
waited  for  a  few  moments,  until  he  could  give  me  his  undi- 
vided attention;  and  then  proceeded  to  explain  the  precau- 
tion, that,  it  had  occurred  to  me  last  night,  it  would  be  wise 
to  take. 

"  Now,  my  dear  friend — "  I  began. 

"  Thankee,  thankee,  kind  sir,"  he  said,  grasping  my  hand  in 
both  of  his. 

"  If  she  should  make  her  way  to  London,  which  is  likely — 
for  where  could  she  lose  herself  so  readily  as  in  this  vast 
city;  and  what  would  she  wish  to  do,  but  lose  and  hide  her- 
self, if  she  does  not  go  home  ? — " 

"  And  she  won't  go  home,"  he  interposed,  shaking  his  head 
mournfully.  "  If  she  had  left  of  her  own  accord,  she  might; 
not  as  'twas,  sir." 

"  If  she  should  come  here,"  said  I,  "  I  believe  there  is  one 
person,  here,  more  likely  to  discover  her  than  any  other  in 
the  world.  Do  you  remember — hear  what  I  say,  with  forti- 
tude— think  of  your  great  object — do  you  remember  Martha?" 

"  Of  our  town  ?" 

I  needed  no  other  answer  than  his  face. 

"  Do  you  know  that  she  is  in  London  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  her  in  the  street,"  he  answered  with  a  shiver. 

"But  you  don't  know,"  said  I,  "that  Emily  was  chari- 
table to  her,  with  Ham's  help,  long  before  she  fled  from 
home.  Nor  that,  when  we  met  one  night,  and  spoke  to- 
gether in  the  room  yonder,  over  the  way,  she  listened  at  the 
door.  ' 

"  Mas'r  Davy?"  he  replied  in  astonishment.  "  That  night 
when  it  snew  so  hard?" 

"  That  night.  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  I  went  back, 
after  parting  from  you,  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  was  gone.  I 
was  unwilling  to  mention  her  to  you  then,  and  I  am  now; 
but  she  is  the  person  of  whom  I  speak,  and  with  whom  I 
think  we  should  communicate.     Do  you  understand?" 

"  Too  well,  sir,"  he  replied.  We  had  sunk  our  voices 
almost  to  a  whisper,  and  continued  to  speak  in  that  tone. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  669 

"You  say  you  have  seen  her.  Do  you  think  that  you 
could  find  her?     I  could  only  hope  to  do  so  by  chance." 

"  I  think,  Mas'r  Davy,  I  know  wheer  to  look." 

"  It  is  dark.  Being  together  shall  we  go  out  now,  and  try 
to  find  her  to-night  ?" 

He  assented,  and  prepared  to  accompany  me.  Without 
appearing  to  observe  what  he  was  doing,  I  saw  how  carefully 
he  adjusted  the  little  room,  put  a  candle  ready  and  the  means 
of  lighting  it,  arranged  the  bed,  and  finally  took  out  of  a 
drawer  one  of  her  dresses  (I  remembered  to  have  seen  her 
wear  it),  neatly  folded  some  other  garments,  and  a  bonnet, 
which  he  placed  upon  a  chair.  He  made  no  allusion  to  these 
clothes,  neither  did  I.  There  they  had  been  waiting  for  her, 
many  and  many  a  night,  no  doubt. 

"  The  time  was,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said,  as  we  came  down 
stairs,  *' when  I  thowt  this  girl,  Martha,  a'most  like  the  diit 
underneath  my  Em'ly's  feet.  God  forgive  me,  there's  a  dif- 
ference now." 

As  we  went  along,  partly  to  hold  him  in  conversation,  and 
partly  to  satisfy  myself,  I  asked  him  about  Ham.  He  said, 
almost  in  the  same  words  as  formerly,  that  Ham  was  just  the 
same,"  wearing  away  his  life  with  kiender  no  care  nohow 
for't;  but  never  murmuring,  and  liked  by  all." 

I  asked  him  what  he  thought  Ham's  state  of  mind  was, 
in  reference  to  their  misfortunes  ?  Whether  he  believed  it 
was  dangerous  ?  What  he  supposed,  for  example.  Ham  would 
do,  if  he  and  Steerforth  ever  should  encounter  ? 

"  I  doen't  know,  sir,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  thowt  of  it 
oftentimes,  but  I  can't  arrize  myself  of  it,  no  matters." 

I  recalled  to  his  remembrance  the  morning  after  her 
departure,  when  we  were  all  three  on  the  beach.  "  Do 
you  recollect,"  said  I,  **a  certain  wild  way  in  which  he 
looked  out  to  sea,  and  spoke  about  '  the  end  of  it  ?'  " 

"  Sure  I  do!"  said  he. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  he  meant  ?" 

"  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  replied,  "  I've  put  the  question  to 
myself  a  mort  o'times,  and  never  found  no  answer.  And 
theer's  one  curous  thing  that,  though  he  is  so  pleasant,  I 
wouldn't  fare  to  feel  comfortable  to  try  and  get  his  mind 
upon't.  He  never  said  a  wured  to  me  as  warn't  as  dooti- 
ful  as  dootiful  could  be,  and  it  ain't  likely  as  he'd  begin 
to  speak  any  other  ways  now;  but  it's  fur  from  being 
fleet  water  in  his  mind,  where  them  thowts  lays.  It's 
deep,  sir,  and  I  can't  see  down." 


670  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  You  are  right/*  said  I,  "  and  that  has  sometimes  made 
me  anxious." 

"  And  me  too,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  rejoined.  "  Even  more 
so,  I  do  assure  you,  than  his  ventersome  ways,  though  both 
belongs  to  the  alteration  in  him.  I  doen't  know  as  he'd 
do  violence  under  any  circumstances,  but  I  hope  as  them 
two  may  be  kep  asunders." 

We  had  come,  through  Temple  Bar,  into  the  city.  Con- 
versing no  more  now,  and  walking  at  my  side,  he  yielded 
himself  up  to  the  one  aim  of  his  devoted  life,  and  went  on, 
with  that  hushed  concentration  of  his  faculties  which  would 
have  made  his  figure  solitary  in  a  multitude.  We  were  not 
far  from  Blackfriars  Bridge,  when  he  turned  his  head  and 
pointed  to  a  solitary  female  figure  flitting  along  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street.  I  knew  it,  readily,  to  be  the  figure 
that  we  sought. 

We  crossed  the  road,  and  were  pressing  on  towards  her, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  that  she  might  be  more  disposed 
to  feel  a  woman's  interest  in  the  lost  girl,  if  we  spoke  to 
her  in  a  quieter  place,  aloof  from  the  crowd,  and  where  we 
should  be  less  observed.  I  advised  my  companion,  there- 
fore, that  we  should  not  address  her  yet,  but  follow  her  ; 
consulting  in  this,  likewise,  an  indistinct  desire  I  had,  to 
know  where  she  went. 

He  acquiescing,  we  followed  at  a  distance:  never  losing 
sight  of  her,  but  never  caring  to  come  very  near,  as  she 
frequently  looked  about.  Once,  she  stopped  to  listen  to 
a  band  of  music;  and  then  we  stopped  too. 

She  went  on  a  long  way.  Still  we  went  on.  It  was  evi- 
dent, from  the  manner  in  which  she  held  her  course,  that 
she  was  going  to  some  fixed  destination;  and  this,  and 
her  keeping  in  the  busy  streets,  and  I  suppose  the  strange 
fascination  in  the  secresy  and  mystery  of  so  following  any 
one,  made  me  adhere  to  my  first  purpose.  At  length  she 
turned  into  a  dull,  dark  street,  where  the  noise  and  crowd 
were  lost;  and  I  said,  "We  may  speak  to  her  now  j"  and, 
mending  our  pace,  we  went  after  her,  ^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  671 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

MARTHA. 

We  were  now  down  in  Westminster.  We  had  turned 
back  to  follow  her,  having  encountered  her  coming  towards 
us;  and  Westminster  Abbey  was  the  point  at  which  she 
passed  from  the  lights  and  noise  of  the  leading  streets.  She 
proceeded  so  quickly,  when  she  got  free  of  the  two  currents 
of  passengers  setting  towards  and  from  the  bridge,  that,  be- 
tween this  and  the  advance  she  had  of  us  when  she  struck  off, 
we  were  in  the  narrow  water-side  street  by  Millbank  before  we 
came  up  with  her.  At  that  moment  she  crossed  the  road, 
as  if  to  avoid  the  footsteps  that  she  heard  so  close  behind; 
and,  without  looking  back,  passed  on  even  more  rapidly. 

A  glimpse  of  the  river  through  a  dull  gateway,  where  some 
wagons  were  housed  for  the  night,  seemed  to  arrest  my 
feet.  I  touched  my  companion  without  speaking,  and  we 
both  forbore  to  cross  after  her,  and  both  followed  on  that 
opposite  side  of  the  way;  keeping  as  quietly  as  we  could  in 
the  shadow  of  the  houses,  but  keeping  very  near  her. 

There  was,  and  is  when  I  write,  at  the  end  of  that  low- 
lying  street,  a  dilapidated  little  wooden  building,  probably 
an  obsolete  old  ferry-house.  Its  position  is  just  at  that  point 
where  the  street  ceases,  and  the  road  begins  to  lie  between 
a  row  of  houses  and  the  river.  As  soon  as  she  came  here, 
and  saw  the  water,  she  stopped  as  if  she  had  come  to  her 
destination;  and  presently  went  slowly  along  by  the  brink 
of  the  river,  looking  intently  at  it. 

All  the  way  here,  I  had  supposed  that  she  was  going  to 
some  house;  indeed,  I  had  vaguely  entertained  the  hope 
that  the  the  house  might  be  in  some  way  associated  with  the 
lost  girl.  But  that  one  dark  glimpse  of  the  river,  through 
the  gateway,  had  instinctively  prepared  me  for  her  going  no 
farther. 

The  neighborhood  was  a  dreary  one  at  that  time;  as  op- 
pressive, sad,  and  solitary  by  night,  as  any  about  London. 
There  were  neither  wharves  nor  houses  on  the  melancholy 
waste  of  road  near  the  great  blank  Prison  A  sluggish  ditch 
deposited  its  mud  at  the  prison  walls.  Coarse  grass  and 
rank  weeds  straggled  over  all  the  marshy  land  in  the  vicinity. 
In  one  part,  carcasses  of  houses,  inauspiciously  begun  and 


072  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

never  finished,  rotted  away.  In  another,  the  ground  was 
cumbered  with  rusty  iron  monsters  of  steam-boilers,  wheels, 
cranks,  pipes,  furnaces,  paddles,  anchors,  diving-bells,  M^nd- 
mill-sails,  and  I  know  not  what  strange  objects,  accumulated 
by  some  speculator,  and  groveling  in  the  dust,  underneath 
which — having  sunk  into  the  soil  of  their  own  weight  in  wet 
weather — they  had  the  appearance  of  vainly  trying  to  hide 
themselves.  The  clash  and  glare  of  sundry  fiery  Works 
upon  the  river  side,  arose  by  night  to  disturb  everything 
except  the  heavy  and  unbroken  smoke  that  poured  out  of 
their  chimneys.  Slimy  gaps  and  causeways,  winding  among 
old  wooden  piles,  with  a  sickly  substance  clinging  to  the 
Jatter,  like  green  hair,  and  the  rags  of  last  year's  handbills 
offering  rewards  for  drowned  men  fluttering  above  high- 
water  mark,  led  down  through  the  ooze  and  slush  to  the  ebb 
tide.  There  was  a  story  that  one  of  the  pits  dug  for  the 
dead  in  the  time  of  the  Great  Plague  was  hereabout;  and  a 
blighting  influence  seemed  to  have  proceeded  from  it  over 
the  whole  place.  Or  else  it  looked  as  if  it  had  gradually 
decomposed  into  that  nightmare  condition,  out  of  the  over- 
flowings of  the  polluted  stream. 

As  if  she  were  a  part  of  the  refuse  it  had  cast  out,  and  left 
to  corruption  and  decay,  the  girl  we  had  followed  strayed 
down  to  the  river's  brink,  and  stood  in  the  midst  of  this 
night-picture,  lonely  and  still,  looking  at  the  water. 

There  were  some  boats  and  barges  astrand  in  the  mud, 
and  these  enabled  us  to  come  within  a  few  yards  of  her  with- 
out being  seen.  I  then  signed  to  Mr.  Peggotty  to  remain 
where  he  was,  and  emerged  from  their  shade  to  speak  to  her. 
I  did  not  approach  her  solitary  figure  without  trembling;  for 
this  gloomy  end  to  her  determined  walk,  and  the  way  in 
which  she  stood,  almost  within  the  cavernous  shadow  of  the 
iron  bridge,  looking  at  the  lights  crookedly  reflected  in  the 
strong  tide,  inspired  a  dread  within  me. 

I  think  she  was  talking  to  herself.  I  am  sure,  although 
absorbed  in  gazing  at  the  water,  that  her  shawl  was  off  her 
shoulders,  and  that  she  was  muffling  her  hands  in  it,  in  an 
unsettled  and  bewildered  way,  more  like  the  action  of  a 
sleep-walker  than  a  waking  person.  I  know,  and  never  can 
forget,  that  there  was  that  in  her  wild  manner  which  gave  me 
no  assurance  but  that  she  would  sink  before  my  eyes,  until 
I  had  her  arm  within  my  grasp. 

At  the  same  moment  I  said  **  Martha!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  673 

She  uttered  a  terrified  scream,  and  struggled  with  me  with 
such  strength  that  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  held  her  alone. 
But  a  stronger  hand  than  mine  was  laid  upon  her;  and  when 
she  raised  her  frightened  eyes  and  saw  whose  it  was,  she 
made  but  one  more  effort,  and  dropped  down  between  us. 
We  carried  her  away  from  the  water  to  where  there  were 
some  dry  stones,  and  there  laid  her  down,  crying  and  moan- 
ing. In  a  little  while  she  sat  among  the  stones,  holding  her 
wretched  head  with  both  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  the  river!"  she  cried  passionately.     "  Oh,  the  river!" 

"  Hush,  hush!"  said  I.     "  Calm  yourself." 

But  she  still  repeated  the  same  words,  continually  exclaim- 
ing, "  Oh,  the  river!"  over  and  over  again. 

"  I  know  it's  like  me!"  she  exclaimed.  *'  I  know  that  I 
belong  to  it.  I  know  that  it's  the  natural  company  of  such 
as  I  am!  It  comes  from  country  places,  where  there  was 
once  no  harm  in  it — and  it  creeps  through  the  dismal 
streets,  defiled  and  miserable — and  it  goes  away,  like  my 
life,  to  a  great  sea,  that  is  always  troubled— and  I  feel  that 
I  must  go  with  it!" 

I  have  never  known  what  despair  was,  except  in  the  tone 
of  those  words. 

"  I  can't  keep  away  from  it.  I  can't  forget  it.  It  haunts 
me  day  and  night.  It's  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world  that 
I  am  fit  for,  or  that's  fit  for  me.     Oh,  the  dreadful  river!" 

The  thought  passed  through  my  mind  that  in  the  face  of 
my  companion,  as  he  looked  upon  her  without  speech  or  mo- 
tion, I  might  have  read  his  niece's  history,  if  I  had  known 
nothing  of  it.  I  never  saw,  in  any  painting  or  reality,  horror 
and  compassion  so  impressively  blended.  He  shook  as  if  he 
would  have  fallen;  and  his  hand — I  touched  it  with  my  own, 
for  his  appearance  alarmed  me — was  deadly  cold.  • 

"  She  is  in  a  state  of  frenzy,"  I  whispered  to  him.  "  She 
will  speak  differently  in  a  little  time." 

I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  said  in  answer.  He 
made  some  motion  with  his  mouth,  and  seemed  to  think  he 
had  spoken;  but  he  had  only  pointed  to  her  with  his  out- 
stretched hand. 

A  new  burst  of  crying  came  upon  her  now,  in  which  she 
once  more  hid  her  face  among  the  stones,  and  lay  before  us, 
a  prostrate  image  of  humiliation  and  ruin.  Knowing  that 
this  state  must  pass,  before  we  could  speak  to  her  with  any 
hope,  I  ventured  to  restrain  him  when  he  would  have  raised 


674  DAVID   COEPERFIELD. 

her,  and  we  stood  by  in  silence  until  she  became  more  tran- 
quil. 

"  Martha,"  said  I  then,  leaning  down,  and  helping  her  to 
rise — she  seemed  to  want  to  rise  as  if  with  the  intention  of 
going  away,  but  she  was  weak,  and  leaned  against  a  boat. 
*'  Do  you  know  who  this  is,  who  is  with  me?" 

She  said  faintly,  "  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  that  we  have  followed  you  a  long  way  to- 
night.?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  looked  neither  at  him  nor  at 
me,  but  stood  in  a  humbled  attitude,  holding  her  bonnet  and 
shawl  in  one  hand,  without  appearing  conscious  of  them, 
and  pressing  the  other,  clenched,  against  her  forehead. 

"  Are  you  composed  enough,"  said  I,  "  to  speak  on  the 
subject  which  so  interested  you — I  hope  Heaven  may  re- 
member it! — that  snowy  night?" 

Her  sobs  broke  out  afresh,  and  she  murmured  some  in- 
articulate thanks  to  me  for  not  having  driven  her  away  from 
the  door. 

"  I  want  to  say  nothing  for  myself,"  she  said,  after  a  few 
moments.  "  I  am  bad,  I  am  lost.  I  have  no  hope  at  all. 
But  tell  him,  sir,"  she  had  shrunk  away  from  him,  "  if  you 
don't  feel  too  hard  to  me  to  do  it,  that  I  never  was  in  any 
way  the  cause  of  his  misfortune." 

"  It  has  never  been  attributed  to  you,"  I  returned,  earn- 
estly responding  to  her  earnestness. 

"  It  was  you,  if  I  don't  deceive  myself,"  she  said,  in  a 
broken  voice,  *'  that  came  into  the  kitchen,  the  night  she 
took  such  pity  on  me;  was  so  gentle  to  me;  didn't  shrink 
away  from  me  like  all  the  rest,  and  gave  me  such  kind  help! 
Was  it  you,  sir?" 

y  It  was,"  said  I. 
T  should  have  been  in  the  river  long  ago,"  she  said, 
glancing  at  it  with  a  terrible  expression,  "  if  any  wrong  to 
her  had  been  upon  my  mind.  I  never  could  have  kept  out 
of  it  a  single  winter's  night,  if  I  had  not  been  free  of  any 
share  in  that!" 

"  The  cause  of  her  flight  is  too  well  understood,"  I  said. 
"  You  are  innocent  of  any  part  in  it,  we  thoroughly  believe, — 
we  know." 

**  Oh,  I  might  have  been  much  the  better  for  her,  if  I  had 
had  a  better  heart!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  most  forlorn 
regret;  "for  she  was  always  good  to  me!     She  never  spoke 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  675 

a  -word  to  me  but  what  was  pleasant  and  right.  Is  it  likely 
I  would  try  to  make  her  what  I  am  myself,  knowing  what  I 
am  myself,  so  well?  When  I  lost  everything  that  makes  lite 
dear,  the  worst  of  all  my  thoughts  was  that  I  was  parted  for 
ever  from  her!" 

Mr.  Peggotty,  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  gunwale  of 
the  boat,  and  his  eyes  cast  down,  put  his  disengaged  hand 
before  his  face. 

"  And  when  I  heard  what  had  happened  before  that  snowy 
night,  from  some  belonging  to  our  town,"  cried  Martha, 
"  the  bitterest  thought  in  all  my  mind  was,  that  the  people 
would  remember  she  once  kept  company  with  me,  and  would 
say  I  had  corrupted  her!  When,  Heaven  knows,  I  would 
have  died  to  have  brought  back  her  good  name!" 

Long  unused  to  any  self-control,  the  piercing  agony  of 
her  remorse  and  grief  was  terrible. 

"  To  have  died  would  not  have  been  much — what  can  I 
say? — I  would  have  lived!"  she  cried.  "  I  would  have  lived 
to  be  old,  in  the  wretched  streets — and  to  wander  about, 
avoided,  in  the  dark — and  to  see  the  day  break  on  the  ghastly 
lines  of  houses,  and  remember  how  the  same  sun  used  to 
shine  into  my  room,  and  wake  me  once — I  would  have  done 
even  that,  to  save  her!" 

Sinking  on  the  stones,  she  took  some  in  each  hand,  and 
clenched  them  up,  as  if  she  would  have  ground  them.  She 
writhed  into  some  new  posture  constantly:  stiffening  her 
arms,  twisting  them  before  her  face,  as  though  to  shut  out 
from  her  eyes  the  little  light  there  was,  and  drooping  her 
head,  as  if  it  were  heavy  with  insupportable  recollections. 

"What  shall  I  ever  do!"  she  said,  fighting  thus  with  her 
despair.  "How  can  I  go  on  as  I  am,  a  solitary  curse  to 
myself,  a  living  disgrace  to  every  one  I  come  near!"  Sud- 
denly she  turned  to  my  companion.  "  Stamp  upon  me,  kill 
me!  When  she  was  your  pride,  you  would  have  thought  I 
had  done  her  harm  if  I  had  brushed  against  her  in  the  street. 
You  can't  believe — why  should  you? — a  syllable  that  comes 
out  of  my  lips.  It  would  be  a  burning  shame  upon  you, 
even  now,  if  she  and  I  exchanged  a  word.  I  don't  com- 
plain. I  don't  say  she  and  I  are  alike — I  know  there  is 
a  long,  long  way  between  us.  I  only  say  with  all  my  guilt 
and  wretchedness  upon  my  head,  that  I  am  grateful  to  her 
from  my  soul,  and  love  her.  Oh,  don't  think  that  all  the 
power  I  had  of  loving  anything,  is  quite  worn  out !     Throw 


676  DAVID  cOPPERFlELD. 

me  away,  as  all  the  world  does.  .  Kill  me  for  being  what  1 
am,  and  having  ever  known  her;  but  don't  think  that  of 
me!" 

He  looked  upon  her,  while  she  made  this  supplication,  in 
a  wild,  distracted  manner;  and,  when  she  was  silent,  gently 
raised  her. 

"  Martha,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  **  God  forbid  as  I  should 
judge  you.  Forbid  as  I,  of  all  men,  should  do  that,  my  girl! 
You  doen't  know  half  the  change  that's  come,  in  course  cf 
time,  upon  me,  when  you  think  it  likely.  Well!"  he  paused 
a  moment,  then  went  on.  "  You  doen't  understand  how  'tis 
that  this  here  gentleman  and  me  has  wished  to  speak  to  you. 
You  doen't  understand  what  'tis  we  has  afore  us.  Listen 
now!" 

His  influence  upon  her  was  complete.  She  stood,  shrink- 
ingly,  before  him,  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  meet  his  eyes;  but 
her  passionate  sorrow  was  quite  hushed  and  mute. 

"  If  you  heerd,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  owt  of  what  passed 
between  Mas'r  Davy  and  me,  th'  night  when  it  snew  so  hard, 
you  know  as  I  have  been — whee^  not — fur  to  seek  my  dear 
niece.  My  dear  niece,"  he  repeated  steadily.  *'  Fur  she's 
more  dear  to  me  now,  Martha,  than  ever  she  was  dear 
afore." 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  face;  but  otherwise  remained 
quiet. 

*'I  have  heerd  her  tell,"  said  Mr  Peggotty,  "as  you  was 
early  left  fatherless  and  motherless,  with  no  friend  fur  to 
take,  in  a  rough  seafaring  way,  their  place.  Maybe  you  can 
guess  that  if  you'd  had  such  a  friend,  you'd  have  got  into  a 
way  of  being  fond  of  him  in  course  of  time,  and  that  my 
niece  was  kiender  daughter-like  to  me." 

As  she  was  silently  trembling,  he  put  her  shawl  carefully 
about  her,  taking  it  up  from  the  ground  for  that  purpose. 

"Whereby,"  said  he,  "  I  know,  both  as  she  would  go  to 
the  wureld's  furdest  end  with  me,  if  she  could  once  see  me 
again  ;  and  that  she  would  fly  to  the  wureld's  furdest  end 
to  keep  off  seeing  me.  For  though  she  ain't  no  call  to  doubt 
my  love,  and  doen't — and  doen't,"  he  repeated  with  a  quiet 
assurance  of  the  truth  of  what  he  said,  there's  shame  steps 
in,  and  keeps  betwixt  us.  " 

I  read,  in  every  word  of  his  plain   impressive  way  of  de 
livering  himself,  new  evidence  of  his  having  thought  of  this 
pne  topic,  in  every  feature  it  presented. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  677 

*'  According  to  our  reckoning,"  he  proceeded,  "  Mas'i 
Davy's  here,  and  mine,  she  is  like,  one  day,  to  make  her  own 
poor  soHtary  course  to  London.  We  believe — Mas'r  Davy,  me, 
and  all  of  us — that  you  are  as  innocent  of  everything  that  has 
befell  her,  as  the  unborn  child.  You've  spoke  of  her  being 
pleasant,  kind,  and  gentle  to  you.  Bless  her,  I  knew  she  was! 
I  knew  she  always  was,  to  all.  You're  thankful  to  her,  and 
you  love  her.  Help  us  all  you  can  to  find  her,  and  may 
Heaven  reward  you!" 

She  looked  at  him  hastily,  and  for  the  first  time,  as  if  she 
were  doubtful  of  what  he  had  said. 

"  Will  you  trust  me  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Full  and  free  !"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"To  speak  to  her,  if  I  should  ever  find  her;  shelter  her, 
if  I  have  any  shelter  to  divide  with  her;  and  then,  without 
her  knowledge,  come  to  you,  and  bring  you  to  her .?"  she 
asked  hurriedly. 

We  both  replied  together,  "  Yes." 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  solemnly  declared  that  she 
would  devote  herself  to  this  task,  fervently  and  faithfully. 
1  hat  she  would  never  waver  in  it,  never  be  diverted  from 
it,  never  relinquish  it,  while  there  was  any  chance  of  hope. 
If  she  were  not  true  to  it,  might  the  object  she  now  had  in 
life,  which  bound  her  to  something  devoid  of  evil,  in  its 
passing  away  from  her,  leave  her  more  forlorn  and  more 
despairing,  if  that  were  possible,  than  she  had  been  upon 
the  river's  brink  that  night;  and  then  might  all  help,  human 
and  Divine,  renounce  her  evermore  ! 

She  did  not  raise  her  voice  above  her  breath,  or  address 
us,  but  said  this  to  the  night  sky;  then  stood  profoundly 
quiet,  looking  at  the  gloomy  water. 

We  judged  it  expedient,  now,  to  tell  her  all  we  knew; 
which  I  recounted  at  length.  She  listened  with  great  atten- 
tion, and  with  a  face  that  often  changed,  but  had  the  same 
purpose  in  all  its  varying  expressions.  Her  eyes  occasion- 
ally filled  with  tears,  but  those  she  repressed.  It  seemed  as 
if  her  spirit  were  quite  altered,  and  she  could  not  be  too 
quiet. 

She  asked,  when  all  was  told,  where  we  were  to  be  commu- 
nicated with,  if  occasion  should  arise.  Under  a  dull  lamp 
in  the  road,  I  wrote  our  two  addresses  on  a  leaf  of  my  pocket- 
book,  which  I  tore  out  and  gave  to  her,  and  which  she  put 


678  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  her  poor  bosom.  I  asked  her  where  she  lived  herself. 
She  said,  after  a  pause,  in  no  place  long.  It  were  better  not 
to  know. 

Mr.  Peggotty  suggesting  to  me,  in  a  whisper,  what  had 
already  occurred  to  myself,  I  took  out  my  purse;  but  I  could 
not  prevail  upon  her  to  accept  any  money,  nor  could  I  ex- 
act any  promise  from  her  that  she  would  do  so  at  another 
time.  I  represented  to  her  that  Mr.  Peggotty  could  not  be 
called,  for  one  in  his  condition,  poor;  and  that  the  idea  of 
her  engaging  in  this  search,  while  depending  on  her  own  re- 
sources, shocked  us  both.  She  continued  steadfast.  In  this 
particular,  his  influence  upon  her  was  equally  powerless  with 
mine.     She  gratefully  thanked  him,  but  remained  inexorable. 

"  There  may  be  work  to  be  got,"  she  said.     "  I'll  try." 

"  At  least  take  some  assistance,"  I  returned,  "  until  you 
have  tried." 

"I  could  not  do  what  I  have  promised  for  money,"  she 
replied.  "  I  could  not  take  it,  if  I  were  starving.  To  give 
me  money  would  be  to  take  away  your  trusty  to  take  away 
the  object  that  you  have  given  me,  to  take  away  the  only 
certain  thing  that  saves  me  from  the  river." 

*'In  the  name  of  the  great  Judge,"  said  I,  **  before  whom 
you  and  all  of  us  must  stand  at  his  dread  time,  dismiss  that 
terrible  idea  !     We  can  all  do  some  good,  if  we  will." 

She  trembled,  and  her  lip  shook,  and  her  face  was  paler, 
as  she  answered: 

"  It  has  been  put  into  your  hearts,  perhaps,  to  save  a 
wretched  creature  for  repentance.  I  am  afraid  to  think  so 
it  seems  too  bold.  If  any  good  should  come  of  me,  I  might 
begin  to  hope;  for  nothing  but  harm  has  ever  come  of  my 
deeds  yet.  I  am  to  be  trusted,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  long 
while,  with  my  miserable  life,  qn  account  of  what  you  have 
given  me  to  try  for.  I  know  no  more;  and  I  can  say  no 
more." 

Again  she  repressed  the  tears  that  had  begun  to  flow;  and 
putting  out  her  trembling  hand,  and  touching  Mr.  Peggotty, 
as  if  there  were  some  healing  virtue  in  him,  went  away  along 
the  desolate  road.  She  had  been  ill,  probably  for  a  long 
time.  I  observed,  upon  that  closer  opportunity  cf  observa- 
tion, that  she  was  worn  and  haggard,  and  that  her  sunken 
eyes  expressed  privation  and  endurance. 

We  followed  her  at  a  short  distance,  our  way  lying  in  the 
same  direction,  until  we  came  back  into  the  lighted  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  679 

populous  streets.  I  had  such  implicit  confidence  in  her  dec- 
laration that  I  then  put  it  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  whether  it  would 
not  seem,  in  the  onset,  like  distrusting  her,  to  follow  her  any 
further.  He  being  of  the  same  mind,  and  equally  reliant  on 
her,  we  suffered  her  to  take  her  own  road,  and  took  ours, 
which  was  towards  Highgate.  He  accompanied  me  a  good 
part  of  the  way;  and  when  we  parted,  with  a  prayer  for  the 
success  of  this  fresh  effort,  there  was  a  new  and  thoughtful 
compassion  in  him  that  I  was  at  no  loss  to  interpret. 

It  was  midnight  when  I  arrived  at  home.  I  had  reached 
my  own  gate,  and  was  standing  listening  for  the  deep  bell 
of  St.  Paul's,  the  sound  of  which  I  thought  had  been  borne 
towards  me  among  the  multitude  of  striking  clocks,  when  I 
was  rather  surprised  to  see  that  the  door  of  my  aunt's  cot- 
tage was  open,  and  that  a  faint  light  in  the  entry  was  shining 
out  across  the  road. 

Thinking  that  my  aunt  might  have  relapsed  into  one  of 
her  old  alarms,  and  might  be  watching  the  progress  of  some 
imaginary  conflagration  in  the  distance,  I  went  to  speak  to 
her.  It  was  with  very  great  surprise  that  I  saw  a  man 
standing  in  her  little  garden. 

He  had  a  glass  and  bottle  in  his  hand,  and  was  in  the  act 
of  drinking.  I  stopped  short,  among  the  thick  foliage  out- 
side, for  the  moon  was  up  now,  though  obscured;  and  I  re- 
cognized the  man  whom  I  had  once  supposed  to  be  a  de- 
lusion of  Mr.  Dick's,  and  had  once  encountered  with  my 
aunt  in  the  streets  of  the  city. 

He  was  eating  as  well  as  drinking,  and  seemed  to  eat 
with  a  hungry  appetite.  He  seemed  curious  regarding  the 
cottage,  too,  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  it.  After 
stooping  to  put  the  bottle  on  the  ground,  he  looked  up  at 
the  windows,  and  looked  about;  though  with  a  covert  and 
impatient  air,  as  if  he  was  anxious  to  be  gone. 

The  light  in  the  passage  was  obscured  for  a  moment,  and 
my  aunt  came  out.  She  was  agitated,  and  told  some  money 
into  his  hand.     I  heard  it  clink. 

*'  What's  the  use  of  this  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  can  spare  no  more,"  returned  my  aunt. 

"  Then  I  can't  go,"  said  he.  "  Here  !  You  may  take  it 
back." 

"You  bad  man,"  returned  my  aunt,  with  great  emotion; 
"  how  can  you  use  me  so!  But  why  do  I  ask?  It  is  because 
you  know  how  weak  I  am!     What  have  I  to  do,  to  free  my- 


68o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

self  for  ever  of  your  visits,  but  to  abandon  you  to  your 
deserts?" 

"  And  why  don't  you  abandon  me  to  my  deserts?"  said  he. 

"  You  ask  me  why!"  returned  my  aunt.  "What  a  heart 
you  must  have!" 

He  stood  moodily  rattling  the  money,  and  shaking  his 
head,  until  at  length  he  said  : 

"  Is  this  all  you  mean  to  give  me,  then!" 

"It  is  all  I  can  give  you,"  said  my  aunt.  "You  know 
I  have  had  losses,  and  am  poorer  than  I  used  to  be.  I  have 
told  you  so.  Having  got  it,  why  do  you  give  me  the  pain  of 
looking  at  you  for  another  moment,  and  seeing  what  you 
have  become?" 

''  I  have  become  shabby  enough,  if  you  mean  that,"  he 
said.     "  I  lead  the  life  of  an  owl." 

"You  stripped  me  of  the  greater  part  of  all  I  ever  had," 
said  my  aunt.  "You  closed  my  heart  against  the  whole 
world,  years  and  years.  You  treated  me  falsely,  ungrate- 
fully, and  cruelly.  Go,  and  repent  of  it.  Don't  add  new 
injuries  to  the  long,  long  list  of  injuries  you  have  done  me!" 

"Ay!  "he  returned.  "It's  all  very  fine! — Well,  I  must 
do  the  best  I  can,  for  the  present,  I  suppose." 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  appeared  abashed  by  my  aunt's  in- 
dignant tears,  and  came  slouching  out  of  the  garden. 
Taking  two  or  three  quick  steps,  as  if  I  had  just  come  up, 
I  met  him  at  the  gate,  and  went  in  as  he  came  out.  We 
eyed  one  another  narrowly  in  passing,  and  with  no  favor. 

"  Aunt,"  said  I,  hurriedly.  "  'J 'his  man  alarming  you  again  ! 
Let  me  speak  to  him.     Who  is  he  ?" 

"  Child,"  returned  my  aunt,  taking  my  arm,  "  come  in,  and 
don't  speak  to  me  for  ten  minutes." 

We  sat  down  in  her  little  parlor.  My  aunt  retired  behind 
the  round  green  fan  of  former  days,  which  was  screwed  on 
the  back  of  a  chair,  and  occasionally  wiped  her  eyes  for  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  she  came  out,  and  took  a  seat 
beside  me. 

"  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  calmly,  "  it's  my  husband." 

"Your  husband,  aunt  !     I  thought  he  had  been  dead  !" 

"  Dead  to  me,"  returned  my  aunt,  "  but  living." 

I  sat  in  silent  amazement. 

"  Betsey  Trotwood  don't  look  a  likely  subject  for  the  ten- 
der passion,"  said  my  aunt,  composedly,  "  but  the  time  was. 
Trot,  when  she  believed  in  that  man  most  entirely.     When 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  68i 

she  loved  him,  Trot,  right  well.  When  there  was  no  proof 
of  attachment  and  affection  that  she  would  not  have  given 
him.  He  repaid  her  by  breaking  her  fortune,  and  nearly- 
breaking  her  heart.  So  she  put  all  that  sort  of  sentiment 
once  and  for  ever  in  a  grave,  and  filled  it  up,  and  flattened 
it  down." 

"  My  dear,  good  aunt  !'* 

"  I  left  him,"  my  aunt  proceeded,  laying  her  hand  as  usual 
on  the  back  of  mine,  "  generously.  I  may  say  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time,  Trot,  that  I  left  him  generously.  He  had  been 
so  cruel  to  me,  that  I  might  have  effected  a  separation  on 
easy  terms  for  myself;  but  I  did  not.  He  soon  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  what  I  gave  him,  sank  lower  and  lower,  mar- 
ried another  woman,  I  believe,  became  an  adventurer,  a  gam- 
bler, and  a  cheat.  What  he  is  now,  you  see.  But  he  was  a 
fine  looking  man  when  I  married  him,"  said  my  aunt,  with 
an  echo  of  her  old  pride  and  admiration  in  her  tone;  and  I 
believed  him — I  was  a  fool  ! — to  be  the  soul  of  honor." 

She  gave  my  hand  a  squeeze,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  He  is  nothing  to  me,  now.  Trot, — less  than  nothing.  But, 
sooner  than  have  him  punished  for  his  offenses  (as  he  would 
be  if  he  prowled  about  in  this  country),  I  give  him  more 
than  I  can  afford,  at  intervals  when  he  re-appears,  to 
go  away.  I  was  a  fool  when  I  married  him;  and  I  am  so  far 
an  incurable  fool  on  that  subject,  that,  for  the  sake  of  what 
I  once  believed  him  to  be,  I  wouldn't  have  even  this  shadow 
of  my  idle  fancy  hardly  dealt  with.  For  I  was  in  earnest. 
Trot,  if  ever  a  woman  was." 

My  aunt  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and 
smoothed  her  dress. 

"  There,  my  dear  !"  she  said.  "  Now,  you  know  the  be- 
ginning, middle,  and  end,  and  all  about  it.  We  won't  men- 
tion the  subject  to  one  another  any  more;  neither,  of  course, 
will  you  mention  it  to  anybody  else.  This  is  my  grumpy, 
frumpy  story,  and  we'll  keep  it  to  ourselves,  Trot  V* 


682  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

DOMESTIC. 

I  LABORED  hard  with  my  book,  without  allowing  it  to  in- 
terfere with  the  punctual  discharge  of  my  newspaper  duties; 
and  it  came  out  and  was  very  successful.  I  was  not  stunned 
by  the  praise  which  sounded  in  my  ears,  notwithstanding 
that  I  was  keenly  alive  to  it,  and  thought  better  of  my  own 
performance,  I  have  little  doubt,  than  anybody  else  did.  It 
has  always  been  in  my  observation  of  human  nature,  that  a 
man  who  has  any  good  reason  to  believe  in  himself  never 
flourishes  himself  before  the  faces  of  other  people  in  order 
that  they  may  believe  in  him.  For  this  reason,  I  retained 
my  modesty  in  very  self-respect;  and  the  more  praise  I  got, 
the  more  I  tried  to  deserve. 

It  is  not  my  purpose,  in  this  record,  though  in  all  other  es- 
sentials it  is  my  written  memory,  to  pursue  the  history  of  my 
own  fictions.  They  express  themselves,  and  I  leave  them 
to  themselves.  When  I  refer  to  them,  incidentally,  it  is  only 
as  a  part  of  my  progress. 

Having  some  foundation  for  believing,  by  this  time,  that 
nature  and  accident  had  made  me  an  author,  I  pursued  my 
vocation  with  confidence.  Without  such  assurance  I  should 
certainly  have  left  it  alone,  and  bestowed  my  energy  on  some 
other  endeavor.  I  should  have  tried  to  find  out  what  nature 
and  accident  really  had  made  me,  and  to  be  that,  and  noth- 
ing else. 

I  had  been  writing,  in  the  newspaper  and  elsewhere,  so 
prosperously,  that  when  my  new  success  was  achieved,  I 
considered  myself  reasonably  entitled  to  escape  from  the 
dreary  debates.  One  joyful  night,  therefore,  I  noted  down 
the  music  of  the  parlimentary  bag-pipes  for  the  last  time, 
and  I  have  never  heard  it  since;  though  I  still  recognize  the 
old  drone  in  the  newspapers,  without  any  substantial  varia- 
tion (except,  perhaps,  that  there  is  more  of  it),  all  the  live- 
long session. 

I  now  write  of  the  time  when  I  had  been  married,  I  sup- 
pose, about  a  year  and  a  half.  After  several  varieties  of 
experiment,  we  had  given  up  the  housekeeping  as  a  bad  job. 
The  house  kept  itself,  and  we  kept  a  page.  The  principal 
function  of  this  retainer  was  to  quarrel  with  the  cook;  in 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  683 

which  respect  he  was  a  perfect  Whittington,  without  his  cat, 
or  the  remotest  chance  of  being  made  Lord  Mayor. 

He  appears  to  me  to  have  lived  in  a  hail  of  saucepan-lids. 
His  whole  existence  was  a  scuffle.  He  would  shriek  for  help 
on  the  most  improper  occasions, — as,  when  we  had  a  little 
dinner  party,  or  a  few  friends  in  the  evening, — and  would 
come  tumbHng  out  of  the  kitchen,  with  iron  missiles  flying 
after  him.  We  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  but  he  was  very 
much  attached  to  us,  and  wouldn't  go.  He  was  a  tearful 
boy,  and  broke  into  such  deplorable  lamentations,  when  a 
cessation  of  our  connection  was  hinted  at,  that  we  were 
obliged  to  keep  him.  He  had  no  mother — no  anything  in 
the  way  of  a  relative,  that  I  could  discover,  except  a  sister, 
who  fled  to  America  the  moment  we  had  taken  him  off  her 
hands;  and  he  became  quartered  on  us  like  a  horrible  young 
changeling.  He  had  a  lively  perception  of  his  own  unfor- 
tunate state,  and  was  always  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  jacket,  or  stooping  to  blow  his  nose  on  the  extreme 
corner  of  a  little  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  never  would 
take  completely  out  of  his  pocket,  but  always  economized 
and  secreted. 

This  unlucky  page,  engaged  in  an  evil  hour  at  six  pounds 
ten  per  annum,  was  a  source  of  continual  trouble  to  me.  I 
watched  him  as  he  grew — and  he  grew  like  scarlet  beans — 
with  painful  apprehensions  of  the  time  when  he  would  begin 
to  shave;  even  of  the  days  when  he  would  be  bald  or  gray. 
I  saw  no  prospect  of  ever  getting  rid  of  him;  and,  project- 
ing myself  into  the  future,  used  to  think  what  an  inconveni- 
ence he  would  be  when  he  was  an  old  man. 

I  never  expected  anything  less,  than  this  unforunate's 
manner  of  getting  me  out  of  my  difficulty.  He  stole  Dora's 
watch,  which,  like  everything  else  belonging  to  us,  had  no 
particular  place  of  its  own;  and,  converting  it  into  money, 
spent  the  produce  (he  was  always  a  weak-minded  boy)  in  in- 
cessantly riding  up  and  down  between  London  and  Ux- 
bridge  outside  the  coach.  He  was  taken  to  Bow  Street,  as 
well  as  I  remember,  on  the  completion  of  his  fifteenth 
journey;  when  four-and-sixpence,  and  a  second-hand  fife, 
which  he  couldn't  play,  were  found  upon  his  person. 

The  surprise  and  its  consequences  would  have  been  much 
less  disagreeable  to  me  if  he  had  not  been  penitent.  But  he 
was  very  penitent  indeed,  and  in  a  peculiar  way — not  in  the 
himp,  but  by  installments.     For  example:  the  day  after  that 


684  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

on  which  I  was  obliged  to  appear  against  him,  he  made  cer- 
tain revelations  touching  a  hamper  in  the  cellar,  which  we 
believed  to  be  full  of  wine,  but  which  had  nothing  in  it  ex- 
cept bottles  and  corks.  We  supposed  he  had  now  eased  his 
mind,  and  told  the  worst  he  knew  of  the  cook;  but,  a  day 
or  two  afterwards,  his  conscience  sustained  a  nev/  twinge, 
and  he  disclosed  how  she  had  a  little  girl,  who,  early  every 
morning,  took  away  our  bread;  and  also  how  he  himself 
had  been  suborned  to  maintain  the  milkman  in  coals.  In 
two  or  three  days  more,  I  was  informed  by  the  authorities  of 
his  having  led  to  the  discovery  of  sirloins  of  beef  among  the 
kitchen-stuff,  and  sheets  in  the  rag-bag.  A  little  while  after- 
wards, he  broke  out  in  an  entirely  new  direction,  and  con- 
fessed to  a  knowledge  of  burglarious  intentions  as  to  our 
premises,  on  the  part  of  the  pot-boy,  who  was  immediately 
taken  up.  I  got  to  be  so  ashamed  of  being  such  a  victim, 
that  I  would  have  given  him  any  money  to  hold  his  tongue, 
or  would  have  offered  a  round  bribe  for  his  being  pexmitted 
to  run  away.  It  was  an  aggravating  circumstance  in  the 
case  that  he  had  no  idea  of  this,  but  conceived  that  he  was 
making  me  amends  in  every  new  discovery:  not  to  say  heap- 
ing obligations  on  my  head. 

At  last  I  ran  away  myself,  whenever  I  saw  an  emissary 
of  the  police  approaching  with  some  new  intelligence;  and 
lived  a  stealthy  life  until  he  was  tried  and  ordered  to  be 
transported.  Even  then  he  couldn't  be  quiet,  but  was  al- 
ways writing  us  letters;  and  wanted  so  much  to  see  Dora 
before  he  went  away,  that  Dora  went  to  visit  him,  and 
fainted  away  when  she  found  herself  inside  the  iron  bars. 
In  short  I  had  no  peace  of  my  life  until  he  was  expatriated, 
and  made  (as  I  afterwards  heard)  a  shepherd  of,  "  up  the 
country"  somewhere;  I  have  no  geographical  idea  where. 

All  this  led  me  into  some  serious  reflections,  and  present- 
ed our  mistakes  in  a  new  aspect;  as  I  could  not  help  com- 
municating to  Dora  one  evening,  in  spite  of  my  tenderness 
for  her. 

"  My  love,"  said  I,  "  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  think  that 
our  want  of  system  and  management  involves  not  only  our- 
selves (which  we  have  got  used  to),  but  other  people." 

"  You  have  been  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  now  you  are 
going  to  be  cross!"  said  Dora. 

"  No,  my  dear,  indeed!  Let  me  explain  to  you  what  I 
mean." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  685 

*'  I  think  I  don't  want  to  know,"  said  Dora. 

"But  I  want  you  to  know,  my  love.     Put  Jip  down/* 

Dora  put  his  nose  to  mine,  and  said  "Boh!"  to  drive  my 
seriousness  away;  but,  not  succeeding,  ordered  him  into  his 
Pagoda,  and  sat  looking  at  me,  with  her  hands  folded,  and 
a  most  resigned  little  expression  of  countenance. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear,"  I  began,  "  there  is  contagion  in  us. 
We  infect  every  one  about  us." 

I  might  have  gone  on  in  this  figurative  manner,  if  Dora's 
face  had  not  admonished  me  that  she  was  wondering  with 
all  her  might  whether  I  was  going  to  propose  any  new  kind 
of  vaccination,  or  other  medical  remedy,  for  this  unwhole- 
some state  of  ours.  Therefore  I  checked  myself,  and  made 
my  meaning  plainer. 

"It  is  not  merely,  my  pet," said  I,  "that  we  lose  money 
and  comfort,  and  even  temper  sometimes,  by  not  learning  to 
be  more  careful;  but  that  we  incur  the  serious  responsibihty 
of  spoiling  everyone  who  comes  into  our  service,  or  has  any 
dealings  with  us.  I  begin  to  be  afraid  that  the  fault  is  not 
entirely  on  one  side,  but  that  these  people  all  turn  out  ill 
because  we  don't  turn  out  well  ourselves." 

"Oh,  what  an  accusation,"  exclaimed  Dora,  opening  her 
eyes  wide;  "  to  say  that  you  ever  saw  me  take  gold  watches! 
Oh!" 

"My  dearest,"  I  remonstrated,  "don't  talk  preposterous 
nonsense!  Who  has  made  the  least  allusion  to  gold 
watches  ?" 

"You  did,"  returned  Dora.  "You  know  you  did.  You 
said  I  hadn't  turned  out  well,  and  compared  me  to  him." 

"  To  whom  .?"  I  asked. 

**To  the  page,"  sobbed  Dora.  "Oh,  you  cruel  fellow,  to 
compare  your  affectionate  wife  to  a  transported  page!  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  your  opinion  of  me  before  we  were  mar- 
ried ?  Why  didn't  you  say,  you  hard-hearted  thing,  that  you 
were  convinced  I  was  worse  than  a  transported  page  ?  Oh, 
what  a  dreadful  opinion  to  have  of  me!     Oh,  my  goodness!" 

"Now,  Dora,  my  love,"  I  returned,  gently  trying  to  re- 
move the  handkerchief  she  pressed  to  her  eyes,  "  This  is  not 
only  very  ridiculous  of  you,  but  very  wrong.  In  the  first 
place,  it's  not  true." 

"You  always  said  he  was  a  story-teller,"  sobbed  Dora. 
"  And  now  you  say  the  same  of  me  I  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  I 
What  ghall  I  do  !" 


686  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"My  darling  girl,"  I  retorted,  "I  really  must  entreat  you 
to  be  reasonable,  and  listen  to  what  I  did  say,  and  do  say. 
My  dear  Dora,  unless  we  fearn  to  do  our  duty  to  those 
whom  we  employ,  they  will  never  learn  to  do  their  duty  to 
us.  I  am  afraid  we  present  opportunities  to  people  to  do 
wrong,  that  never  ought  to  be  presented.  Even  if  we  were 
as  lax  as  we  are,  in  all  our  arrangements,  by  choice — which 
we  are  not — even  if  we  liked  it,  and  found  it  agreeable  to  be  so 
— which  we  don't — I  am  persuaded  we  should  have  no  right 
to  go  on  in  this  way.  We  are  positively  corrupting  people. 
We  are  bound  to  think  of  that.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  it, 
Dora.  It  is  a  reflection  I  am  unable  to  dismiss,  and  it  some- 
times makes  me  very  uneasy.  There,  dear,  that's  all.  Come 
now  !     Don't  be  foolish  !" 

Dora  would  not  allow  me,  for  a  long  time,  to  remove  the 
handkerchief.  She  sat  sobbing  and  murmuring  behind  it, 
that,  if  I  was  uneasy,  why  had  I  ever  been  married  ?  Why 
hadn't  I  said,  even  the  day  before  we  went  to  church,  that  I 
knew  I  should  be  uneasy  and  I  would  rather  not  ?  If  I 
couldn't  bear  her,  why  didn't  I  send  her  away  to  her  aunts 
at  Putney,  or  to  Julia  Mills  in  India?  Julia  would  be  glad 
to  see  her,  and  would  not  call  her  a  transported  page;  Julia 
had  never  called  her  anything  of  the  sort.  In  short,  Dora 
was  so  afflicted,  and  so  afflicted  me  by  being  in  that  condi- 
tion, that  I  felt  it  was  of  no  use  repeating  this  kind  of  effort, 
though  never  so  mildly,  and  I  must  take  some  other  course. 

What  other  course  was  left  to  take  ?  To  "  form  her  mind  !" 
This  was  a  common  phrase  of  words  which  had  a  fair  and 
promising  sound,  and  I  resolved  to  form  Dora's  mind. 

I  began  immediately.  When  Dora  was  very  childish,  and 
I  would  infinitely  have  preferred  to  humor  her,  I  tried  to  be 
grave — and  disconcerted  her,  and  myself  too.  I  talked  to 
her  on  the  subjects  which  occupied  my  thoughts;  and  I  read 
Shakspeare  to  her — and  fatigued  her  to  the  last  degree.  I 
accustomed  myself  to  giving  her,  as  it  were  quite  casually, 
little  scraps  of  useful  information,  or  sound  opinion — and 
she  started  from  them  when  I  let  them  off,  as  if  they  had 
been  crackers.  No  matter  how  incidentally  or  naturally  I 
endeavored  to  form  my  little  wife's  mind,  I  could  not  help 
seeing  that  she  always  had  an  instinctive  perception  of  what 
I  was  about,  and  became  a  prey  to  the  keenest  apprehensions. 
In  particular,  it  was  clear  to  me,  that  she  thought  Shakspeare 
a  terrible  fellow.     The  formation  went  on   very  slowly. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  687 

I  pressed  Traddles  into  the  service  without  his  knowledge; 
and  whenever  he  came  to  see  us,  exploded  my  mines  upon 
him  for  the  edification  of  Dora  at  second  hand.  The  amount 
of  practical  wisdom  I  bestowed  upon  Traddles  in  this  man- 
ner was  immense,  and  of  the  best  quality;  but  it  had  no 
other  effect  upon  Dora  than  to  depress  her  spirits,  and  make 
her  always  nervous  with  the  dread  that  it  would  be  her  turn 
next.  I  found  myself  in  the  condition  of  a  schoolmaster,  a 
trap,  a  pitfall;  of  always  playing  spider  to  Dora's  fly,  and  al- 
ways pouncing  out  of  my  hole  to  her  infinite  disturbance. 

Still,  looking  forward  through  this  intermediate  stage,  to 
the  time  when  there  should  be  a  perfect  sympathy  between 
Dora  and  me,  and  when  1  should  have  "  formed  her  mind" 
to  my  entire  satisfaction,  I  persevered,  even  for  months. 
Finding,  at  last,  however,  that,  although  I  had  been  all  this 
time  a  very  porcupine  or  hedgehog,  bristling  all  over  with 
determination,  I  had  effected  nothing,  it  began  to  occur  to 
me  perhaps  that  Dora's  mind  was  already  formed. 

On  farther  consideration  this  appeared  so  likely,  that  I 
abandoned  my  scheme,  which  had  had  a  more  promising 
appearance  in  words  than  in  action;  resolving  henceforth 
to  be  satisfied  with  my  child-wife,  and  to  try  to  change  her 
into  nothing  else  by  any  process.  I  was  heartily  tired  of 
being  sagacious  and  prudent  myself,  and  of  seeing  my  darl- 
ing under  restraint;  so,  I  bought  a  pretty  pair  of  ear-rings 
for  her,  and  a  collar  for  Jip,  and  went  home  one  day  to 
make  myself  agreeable. 

Dora  was  delighted  with  the  little  presents  and  kissed  me 
joyfully;  but,  there  was  a  shadow  between  us,  however  slight, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  should  not  be  there.  If 
there  must  be  such  a  shadow  anywhere,  I  would  keep  it  for 
the  future  in  my  own  breast. 

I  sat  down  by  my  wife  on  the  sofa,  and  put  the  ear-rings 
in  her  ears;  and  then  I  told  her  that  I  feared  we  had  not 
been  quite  as  good  company  lately  as  we  used  to  be,  and 
that  the  fault  was  mine.  Which  I  sincerely  felt,  and  which 
indeed  it  was. 

"  The  truth  is,  Dora,  my  life,"  I  said;  "  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  be  wise." 

"  And  to  make  me  wise  too,"  said  Dora,  timidly.  "  Haven't 
you,  Doady?" 

I  nodded  assent  to  the  pretty  inquiry  of  the  raised  eye- 
brows, and  kissed  the  parted  lips. 


688  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  It's  of  not  a  bit  of  use,"  said  Dora,  shaking  her  head, 
until  the  ear-rings  rang  again.  "  You  know  what  a  Httle 
thing  I  am,  and  what  I  wanted  you  to  call  me  from  the  first. 
If  you  can't  do  so,  I  am  afraid  you'll  never  like  me.  Are 
you  sure  you  don't  think,  sometimes,  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have — " 

"  Done  what,  my  dear?"  For  she  made  no  effort  to  pro- 
ceed. 

"  Nothing!"  said  Dora. 

"  Nothing?"  I  repeated. 

She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  laughed,  and  called 
herself  by  her  favorite  name  of  a  goose,  and  hid  her  face  on 
my  shoulder  in  such  a  profusion  of  curls  that  it  was  quite  a 
task  to  clear  them  away  and  see  it. 

"  Don't  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  done 
nothing,  than  to  have  tried  to  form  my  little  wife's  mind  ?" 
said  I,  laughing  to  myself.  "  Is  that  the  question  ?  Yes,  in- 
deed, I  do." 

"Is  that  what  you  have  been  trying  !"  cried  Dora.  " Oh 
what  a  shocking  boy  !" 

"  But  I  shall  never  try  any  more,"  said  I.  "  For  I  love  her 
dearly  as  she  is." 

"  Without  a  story — really  ?"  inquired  Dora,  creeping  closer 
to  me. 

"  Why  should  I  seek  to  change,"  said  I,  "  what  has  been 
so  precious  to  me  for  so  long  ?  You  never  can  show  better 
than  as  your  own  natural  self;  my  sweet  Dora;  and  we'll  try 
no  conceited  experiments,  but  go  back  to  our  old  way,  and 
be  happy." 

"  And  be  happy!"  returned  Dora.  "Yes!  All  day!  And 
you  won't  mind  things  going  a  tiny  morsel  wrong,  some- 
times?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  I.     "  We  must  do  the  best  we  can.' 

"  And  you  won't  tell  me,  any  more,  that  we  make  other 
people  bad,"  coaxed  Dora;  "  will  you?  Because  you  know 
it's  so  dreadfully  cross." 

"  No,  no,"  said  I. 

"  It's  better  for  me  to  be  stupid  than  uncomfortable,  isn't 
it?"  said  Dora. 

"  Better  to  be  naturally  Dora  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"  In  the  world!     Ah  Doady,  it's  a  large  place!" 

She  shook  her  head,  turned  her  delighted  bright  eyes  up 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  689 

to  mine,  kissed  me,  broke  into  a  merry  laugh,  and  sprang 
away  to  put  on  Jip's  new  collar. 

So  ended  my  last  attempt  to  make  any  change  in  Dora. 
1  had  been  unhappy  in  trying  it;  I  could  not  endure  my 
own  solitary  wisdom;  I  could  not  reconcile  it  with  her 
former  appeal  to  me  as  my  child-wife.  I  resolved  to  do 
what  I  could,  in  a  quiet  way,  to  improve  our  proceedings 
myself;  but  I  foresaw  that  my  utmost  would  be  very  little, 
or  I  must  degenerate  into  the  spider  again,  and  be  for  ever 
lying  in  wait. 

And  the  shadow  I  have  mentioned  that  was  not  to  be  be- 
tween us  any  more,  but  was  to  rest  wholly  on  my  own  heart? 
How  did  that  fall.? 

The  old  unhappy  feeling  pervaded  my  life.  It  was  deep- 
ened, if  it  were  changed  at  all;  but  it  was  as  undefined  as 
ever,  and  addressed  me  like  a  strain  of  sorrowful  music, 
faintly  heard  in  the  night.  I  loved  my  wife  dearly,  and  I 
was  happy;  but  the  happiness  I  had  vaguely  anticipated 
once,  was  not  the  happiness  I  enjoyed,  and  there  was  always 
something  wanting. 

In  fulfillment  of  the  compact  I  have  made  with  myself  to 
reflect  my  mind  on  this  paper,  I  again  examine  it,  closely, 
and  bring  its  secrets  to  the  light.  What  I  missed,  I  still  re- 
garded— I  always  regarded — as  something  that  had  been  a 
dream  of  my  youthful  fancy;  that  was  incapable  of  realiza- 
tion; that  I  was  now  discovering  to  be  so,  with  some  natural 
pain,  as  all  men  did^  But  that  it  would  have  been  better 
for  me  if  my  wife  could  have  helped  me  more,  and  shared 
the  many  thoughts  in  which  I  had  no  partner;  and  that  this 
might  have  been,  I  knew. 

Between  these  two  irreconcilable  conclusions;  the  one, 
that  what  I  felt,  was  general  and  unavoidable;  the  other, 
that  it  was  particular  to  me,  and  might  have  been  different; 
I  balanced  curiously,  with  no  distinct  sense  of  their  op- 
position to  each  other.  When  I  thought  of  the  airy 
dreams  of  youth  that  are  incapable  of  realization,  I  thought 
of  the  better  state  preceding  manhood  that  I  had  outgrown; 
and  then  the  contented  days  with  Agnes,  in  the  dear  old, 
house,  arose  before  me,  like  spectres  of  the  dead,  that; 
might  have  some  renewal  in  another  world,  but  never,  never 
more  could  be  reanimated  here. 

Sometimes,  the  speculation  came  into  my  thoughts,  What 
might  have  happened,  or  wl;\at  WQuId.  have  happened,  ii 


690  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

Dora  and  I  had  never  known  each  other?  But  she  was  so 
incorporated  with  my  existence,  that  it  was  the  idlest  of  all 
fancies,  and  would  soon  rise  out  of  my  reach  and  sight, 
like  gossamer  floating  in  the  air. 

I  always  loved  her.  What  I  am  describing,  slumbered, 
and  half  awoke,  and  slept  again,  in  the  innermost  recesses 
of  my  mind.  There  was  no  evidence  of  it  in  me;  I  know 
of  no  influence  it  had  in  anything  I  said  or  did.  I  bore  the 
weight  of  all  our  little  cares,  and  all  my  projects  ;  Dora 
held  the  pens;  and  we  both  felt  that  our  shares  were  ad- 
justed as  the  case  required.  She  was  truly  fond  of  me,  and 
proud  of  me;  and  when  Agnes  wrote  a  few  earnest  words  in 
her  letters  to  Dora,  of  the  pride  and  interest  with  which  my 
old  friends  heard  of  my  growing  reputation,  and  read  my 
book  as  if  they  heard  me  speaking  its  contents,  Dora  read 
them  out  to  me  with  tears  of  joy  in  her  bright  eyes,  and  said 
I  was  a*  dear  old  clever,  famous  boy. 

"  The  first  mistaken  impulse  of  an  undisciplined  heart." 
Those  words  of  Mrs.  Strong  were  constantly  recurring  to 
me,  at  this  time;  were  almost  always  present  to  my  mind. 
I  awoke  with  them,  often  in  the  night;  I  remember  to  have 
even  read  them,  in  dreams,  inscribed  upon  the  walls  of 
houses.  For  I  knew,  now,  that  my  own  heart  was  undisci- 
plined when  it  first  loved  Dora;  and  that  if  it  had  been  dis- 
ciplined, it  never  could  have  felt,  when  we  were  married, 
what  it  had  felt  in  its  secret  experience. 

"  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage,  like  unsuitability 
of  mind  and  purpose."  Those  words  I  remembered  too.  I 
had  endeavored  to  adapt  Dora  to  myself,  and  found  it  im- 
practicable. It  remained  for  me  to  adapt  myself  to  Dora; 
to  share  with  her  what  I  could,  and  be  hap'py;  to  bear  on 
my  own  shoulders  what  I  must,  and  be  happy  still.  This 
was  the  discipline  to  which  I  tried  to  bring  my  heart,  when 
I  began  to  think.  It  made  my  second  year  much  happier 
than  my  first;  and,  what  was  better  still,  made  Dora's  life 
all  sunshine. 

But,  as  that  year  wore  on,  Dora  was  not  strong.  I  had 
hoped  that  lighter  hands  than  mine  would  help  to  mold 
her  character,  and  that  a  baby-smile  upon  her  breast  might 
change  my  child- wife  to  a  woman.  It  was  not  to  be.  The 
spirit  fluttered  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  its  little 
prison,  and,  unconscious  of  captivity,  took  wing. 

"When  I  Q3,n  run  about  again,  as  I  used  to  do,  aunt," 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  691 

said  Dora,  "I  shall  make  Jip  race.  He  is  getting  quite 
slow  and  lazy." 

"  I  suspect,  my  dear,"  said  my  aunt,  quietly  working  by 
her  side,  "he  has  a  worse  disorder  than  that.     Age,  Dora." 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  old  .?"  said  Dora,  astonished.  "  Oh, 
how  strange  it  seems  that  Jip  should  be  old!" 

"  It  is  a  complaint  we  are  all  liable  to.  Little  One,  as  we 
get  on  in  life,"  said  my  aunt,  cheerfully;  "  I  don't  feel  more 
free  from  it  than  I  used  to  be,  I  assure  you." 

"  But  Jip,"  said  Dora,  looking  at  him  with  compassion, 
"  even  little  Jip!     Oh!  poor  fellow!" 

"  I  dare  say  he'll  last  a  long  time  yet.  Blossom,"  said  my  aunt 
patting  Dora  on  the  cheek,  as  she  leaned  out  of  her  couch 
to  look  at  Jip,  who  responded  by  standing  on  his  hind  legs, 
and  baulking  himself  in  various  asthmatic  attempts  to  scram- 
ble up  by  the  head  and  shoulders.  "  He  must  have  a  piece 
of  flannel  in  his  house  this  winter,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  he  came  out  quite  fresh  again,  with  the  flowers,  in  the 
spring.  Bless  the  little  dog!"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  "  if  he  had 
as  many  lives  as  a  cat,  and  was  on  the  point  of  losing  'em  all, 
he'd  bark  at  me  with  his  last  breath,  I  believe!" 

Dora  had  helped  him  up  on  the  sofa;  where  he  really  was 
defying  my  aunt  to  such  a  furious  extent,  that  he  couldn't 
keep  straight,  but  barked  himself  sideways.  The  more  my 
aunt  looked  at  him,  the  more  he  reproached  her;  for  she 
had  lately  taken  to  spectacles,  and  for  some  unscrutable  rea- 
son he  considered  the  glasses  personal. 

Dora  made  him  lie  down  by  her,  with  a  good  deal  of  per- 
suasion, and  when  he  was  quiet,  drew  one  of  his  long  ears 
through  and  through  her  hand,  repeating,  thoughtfully, 
"Even  little  Jip!     Oh,  poor  fellow!" 

"  His  lungs  are  good  enough,"  said  my  aunt,  gayly,  "  and 
his  dislikes  are  not  at  all  feeble.  He  has  a  good  many  years 
before  him,  no  doubt.  But  if  you  want  a  dog  to  race  with. 
Little  Blossom,  he  has  lived  too  well  for  that,  and  I'll  give 
you  one." 

"Thank  you,  aunt,"  said  Dora,  faintly.  **But  don't, 
please!" 

"  No?"  said  my  aunt,  taking  off  her  spectacles. 

*"  I  couldn't  have  any  other  dog  but  Jip,"  said  Dora.  "  It 
would  be  so  unkind  to  Jip!  Besides,  I  couldn't  be  such  friends 
with  any  other  dog  but  Jip;  because  he  wouldn't  have  known 
we  before  I  was  married,  and  wouldn't  have  barked  at  Doady 


69i  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

when  he  first  came  to  our  house.     I  couldn't  care  for  any 
other  dog  but  Jip,  I  am  afraid,  aunt." 

*'  To  be  sure!"  said  my  aunt,  patting  her  cheek  again. 
"You  are  right." 

**  You  are  not  offended,"  said  Dora.     "  Are  you?" 
Why,  what  a  sensitive  pet  it  is!"  cried  my  aunt,  bend- 
ing over  her  affectionately.     "  To   think  that  I  could  be 
offended!" 

"  No,  no,  I  didn't  really  think  so,"  returned  Dora;  *'  but 
I  am  a  little  tired,  and  it  made  me  silly  for  a  moment — I  am 
always  a  silly  little  thing,  you  know,  but  it  made  me  more 
silly — to  talk  about  Jip.  He  has  known  me  in  all  that  has 
happened  to  me,  haven't  you,  Jip?  And  I  couldn't  bear  to 
slight  him,  because  he  was  a  little  altered — could  I,  Jip?" 

Jip  nestled  closer  to  his  mistress,  and  lazily  licked  her 
hand. 

"  You  are  not  so  old,  Jip,  are  you,  that  you'll  leave  your 
mistress  yet,"  said  Dora.  "  We  may  keep  one  another  com- 
pany, a  little  longer!" 

My  pretty  Dora!  When  she  came  down  to  dinner  on  the 
ensuing  Sunday,  and  was  so  glad  to  see  old  Traddles  (who 
always  dined  with  us  on  Sunday),  we  thought  she  would  be 
"  running  about  as  she  used  to  do,"  in  a  few  days.  But 
they  said,  wait  a  few  days  more;  and  then,  wait  a  few  days 
more;  and  still  she  neither  ran  nor  walked.  She  looked 
very  pretty,  and  was  very  merry;  but  the  little  feet  that  used 
to  be  so  nimble  when  they  danced  round  Jip,  were  dull  and 
motionless. 

I  began  to  carry  her  down  stairs  every  morning,  and  up 
stairs  every  night.  She  would  clasp  me  round  the  neck  and 
laugh  the  while,  as  if  I  did  it  for  a  wager.  Jip  would  bark 
and  caper  round  us,  and  go  on  before,  and  look  back  on  the 
landing,  breathing  short,  to  see  that  we  were  coming.  My 
aunt,  the  best  and  most  cheerful  of  nurses,  would  trudge 
after  us,  a  moving  mass  of  shawls  and  pillows.  Mr.  Dick 
would  not  have  relinquished  his  post  of  candle-bearer  to  any 
one  alive.  Traddles  would  be  often  at  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase,  looking  on,  and  taking  charge  of  sportive  messages 
from  Dora  to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world.  We  made  quite 
a  gay  procession  of  it,  and  my  child-wife  was  the  gayest 
there. 

But  sometimes,  when  1  took  her  up,  and  felt  that  she  was 
lighter  in  my  arms,  a  dead  blank  feeling  came  upo-n  me,  as 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  693 

if  I  were  approaching  to  some  frozen  region  yet  unseen,  that 
numbed  my  life.  I  avoided  the  recognition  of  this  feeling 
by  any  name,  or  by  any  communing  with  myself;  until  one 
night,  when  it  was  very  strong  upon  me,  and  my  aunt  had 
left  her  with  a  parting  cry  of  "  Good  night,  Little  Blossom," 
I  sat  down  at  my  desk  alone,  and  cried  to  think,  oh  what 
a  fatal  name  it  was,  and  how  the  blossom  withered  in  its 
bloom  upon  the  tree! 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

I    AM    INVOLVED    IN    MYSTERY. 

I  RECEIVED  one  morning  by  the  post,  the  following  letter, 
dated  Canterbury,  and  addressed  to  me  at  Doctors'  Com- 
mons; which  I  read  with  some  surprise: 

"My  Dear  Sir, 

"  Circumstances  beyond  my  individual  control 
have,  for  a  considerable  lapse  of  time,  effected  a  severance 
of  that  intimacy  which,  in  the  limited  opportunities  conceded 
to  me  in  the  midst  of  my  professional  duties,  of  contemplat- 
ing the  scenes  and  events  of  the  past,  tinged  by  the  prismatic 
hues  of  memory,  has  ever  afforded  me,  as  it  ever  must  con« 
tinue  to  afford,  gratifying  emotions  of  no  common  descrip- 
tion. This  fact,  my  dear  sir,  combined  with  the  distin- 
guished elevation  to  which  your  talents  have  raised  you, 
deters  me  from  presuming  to  aspire  to  the  liberty  of  ad- 
dressing the  companion  of  my  youth,  by  the  familiar  appel- 
lation of  Copperfield!  It  is  sufficient  to  know  that  the 
name  to  which  I  do  myself  the  honor  to  refer,  will  ever  be 
treasured  among  the  muniments  of  our  house  (I  allude  to 
the  archives  connected  with  our  former  lodgers,  preserved 
by  Mrs.  Micawber),  with  sentiments  of  personal  esteem 
amounting  to  affection. 

"  It  is  not  for  one,  situated,  through  his  original  errors 
and  a  fortuitous  combination  of  unpropitious  events,  as  is 
the  foundered  Bark  (if  he  may  be  allowed  to  assume  so 
maritime  a  denomination),  who  now  takes  up  the  pen  to  ad- 
dress you — it  is  not,  I  repeat,  for  one  so  circumstanced,  to 
adopt  the  language  of  compliment,  or  of  congratulation. 
That,  he  leaves  to  abler  and  to  purer  hands. 


694  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  If  your  more  important  avocations  should  admit  of  your 
ever  tracing  these  imperfect  characters  thus  far — which  may 
be,  or  may  not  be,  as  circumstances  arise — you  will  naturally 
inquire  by  what  object  am  I  influenced,  then,  in  inditing  the 
present  missive?  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  fully  defer  to  the 
reasonable  character  of  that  inquiry,  and  proceed  to  de- 
velop it;  premising  that  it  is  not  an  object  of  a  pecuniary 
nature. 

"  Without  more  directly  referring  to  any  latent  ability 
that  may  possibly  exist  on  my  part,  of  wielding  the  thunder- 
bolt, or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging  flame  in  any 
quarter,  I  may  be  permitted  to  observe,  in  passing,  that  my 
brightest  visions  are  for  ever  dispelled — that  my  peace  is 
shattered,  and  my  power  of  enjoyment  destroyed — that  my 
heart  is  no  longer  in  the  right  place — and  that  I  no  more 
walk  erect  before  my  fellow  man.  The  canker  is  in  the 
flower.  The  cup  is  bitter  to  the  brim.  The  worm  is  at  his 
work,  and  will  soon  dispose  of  his  victim.  The  sooner  the 
better.     But  I  will  not  digress. 

"  Placed  in  a  mental  position  of  peculiar  painfulness, 
beyond  the  assauging  reach  even  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  in- 
fluence, though  exercised  in  the  tripartite  character  of 
woman,  wife,  and  mother,  it  is  my  intention  to  fly  from  my- 
self for  a  short  period,  and  devote  a  respite  of  eight-and- 
forty  hours  to  revisiting  some  metropolitan  scenes  of  past 
enjoyment.  Among  other  havens  of  domestic  tranquillity 
and  peace  of  mind,  my  feet  will  naturally  tend  towards  the 
King's  Bench  Prison.  In  stating  that  I  shall  be  (D.V.)  on 
the  outside  of  the  south  wall  of  that  place  of  incarceration 
on  civil  process,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  at  seven  in  the 
evening,  precisely,  my  object  in  this  epistolary  communica- 
tion is  accomplished. 

"  I  do  not  feel  warranted  in  soliciting  my  former  friend 
Mr.  Copperfield,  or  my  former  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  if  that  gentleman  is  still  existent  and 
forthcoming,  to  condescend  to  meet  me,  and  renew  (so  far 
as  may  be)  our  past  relations  of  the  olden  time.  I  confine 
myself  to  throwing  out  the  observation,  that,  at  the  hour 
and  place  I  have  indicated,  may  be  found  such  ruined  ves- 
tiges as  yet    . 

"  Remain, 
"Of 
"A 

"  Fallen  Tower, 

"WiLKINS  MiCAWBER." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  695 

*'P.S.  It  may  be  advisable  to  superadd  to  the  above,  the 
statement  that  Mrs.  Micawber  is  not  in  confidential  posses- 
sion of  my  intentions." 

I  read  the  letter  over  several  times.  Making  due  allow- 
ance for  Mr.  Micawber's  lofty  style  of  composition,  and  for 
the  extraordinary  relish  with  which  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
long  letters  on  all  possible  and  impossible  occasions,  I  still 
believed  that  something  important  lay  hidden  at  the  bottom 
of  this  roundabout  communication.  I  put  it  down,  to 
think  about  it;  and  took  it  up  again,  to  read  it  once  more; 
and  was  still  pursuing  it,  when  Traddles  found  me  in  the 
height  of  my  perplexity. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "  I  never  was  better  pleased  to 
see  you.  You  come  to  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  sober 
judgment  at  a  most  opportune  time.  I  have  received  a  very 
singular  letter,  Traddles,  from  Mr.  Micawber." 

"No.^"  cried  Traddles.  "You  don't  say  so?  And  I 
have  received  one  from  Mrs.  Micawber!" 

With  that,  Traddles,  who  was  flushed  with  walking,  and 
whose  hair,  under  the  combined  effects  of  exercise  and  ex- 
citement, stood  on  end  as  if  he  saw  a  cheerful  ghost,  pro- 
duced his  letter  and  made  an  exchange  with  me.  I  watched 
him  into  the  heart  of  Mr.  Micawber's  letter,  and  returned 
the  elevation  of  eyebrows  with  which  he  said  "  *  Wielding 
the  thunderbolt,  or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging 
flame!'  Bless  me,  Copperfield!" — and  then  entered  on  the 
perusal  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  epistle. 

It  ran  thus : 

"  My  best  regards  to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  if  he 
should  still  remember  one  who  formerly  had  the  happiness 
of  being  well  acquainted  with  him,  may  I  beg  a  few  mo- 
ments of  his  leisure  time  .'*  I  assure  Mr.  T.  T.  that  I  would 
not  intrude  upon  his  kindness  were  I  in  any  other  position 
than  on  the  confines  of  distraction. 

"  Though  harrowing  to  myself  to  mention,  the  alienation 
of  Mr.  Micawber  (formerly  so  domesticated)  from  his  wife 
and  family,  is  the  cause  of  my  addressing  my  unhappy  ap- 
peal to  Mr.  Traddles,  and  soliciting  his  best  indulgence. 
Mr.  T.  can  form  no  adequate  idea  of  the  change  in  Mr. 
Micawber's  conduct,  of  his  wildness,  of  his  violence.  It 
has  gradually  augmented,  until  it  assumes  the  appearance 


6g6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

of  aberration  of  intellect.  Scarcely  a  day  passes,  I  assure 
Mr.  Traddles,  on  which  some  paroxysm  does  not  take  place, 
Mr.  T.  will  not  require  me  to  depict  my  feelings,  when  I  in- 
form him  that  I  have  become  accustomed  to  hear  Mr.  Mic- 
awber  assert  that  he  had  sold  himself  to  the  D.  Mystery 
and  secrecy  have  long  been  his  principal  characteristic,  have 
long  replaced  unlimited  confidence.  The  slightest  provo- 
cation, even  being  asked  if  there  is  anything  he  would  pre- 
fer for  dinner,  causes  him  to  express  a  wish  for  a  separa- 
tion. Last  night,  on  being  childishly  solicited  for  twopence, 
to  buy  '  lemon-stunners  ' — a  local  sweetmeat — he  presented 
an  oyster-knife  at  the  twins! 

"  I  entreat  Mr.  Traddles  to  bear  with  me  in  entering  into 
these  details.  Without  them,  Mr.  T.  would  indeed  find  it 
difficult  to  form  the  faintest  conception  of  my  heart-rending 
situation. 

"  May  I  now  venture  to  confide  to  Mr.  T.  the  purport  of 
my  letter?  Will  he  now  allov/  me  to  throw  myself  on  his 
friendly  consideration?     Oh,  yes,  for  I  know  his  heart! 

*'  The  quick  eye  of  affection  is  not  easily  blinded,  when 
of  the  female  sex.  Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  London. 
Though  he  studiously  concealed  his  hand,  this  morning 
before  b)reakfast,  in  writing  the  direction-card  which  he 
attached  to  the  little  brown  valise  of  happier  days,  the 
eagle  glance  of  matrimonial  anxiety  detected  d,  o,  n,  dis- 
tinctly traced.  The  West-End  destination  of  the  coach  is 
the  Golden  Cross.  Dare  I  fervently  implore  Mr.  T.  to  see 
my  misguided  husband,  and  to  reason  with  him?  Dare  I 
ask  Mr.  T.  to  endeavor  to  step  in  between  Mr.  Micawber 
and  his  agonized  family?  Oh,  no,  for  that  would  be  too 
much! 

"  If  Mr.  Copperfield  should  yet  remember  one  unknown 
to  fame,  will  Mr.  T.  take  charge  of  my  unalterable  regards 
and  similar  entreaties?  In  any  case,  he  will  have  the  be- 
nevolence fo  consider  this  communication  strictly  private^  aiid 
on  no  account  whatever  to  be  alluded  to,  however  distantly,  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Micawber.  If  Mr.  T.  should  ever  reply  to  it 
(which  I  cannot  but  feel  to  be  most  improbable)  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  M.  E.,  Post  Office,  Canterbury,  will  be  fraught 
with  less  painful  consequences  than  any  addressed  im- 
mediately to  one,  who  subscribes  herself,  in  extreme  distress, 

''  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles'    respectful  friend  and  suppliant, 

"Emma  Micawber." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  697 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  letter  ?"  said  Traddles,  cast- 
ing his  eyes  upon  me,  when  I  had  read  it  twice. 

'*  What  do  you  think  of  the  other  ?"  said  I.  For  he  was 
still  reading  it  with  knotted  brows. 

"  I  think  that  the  two  together,  Copperfield,"  replied  Trad- 
dles, "  mean  more  than  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  usually 
mean  in  their  correspondence — but  I  don't  know  what. 
They  are  both  written  in  good  faith,  I  have  no  doubt,  and 
without  any  collusion.  Poor  thing!"  he  was  now  alluding 
to  Mrs.  Micawber's  letter,  and  we  v/ere  standing  side  by 
side  comparing  the  two;  "  it  will  be  a  charity  to  write  to 
her,  at  all  events,  and  tell  her  that  we  will  not  fail  to  see 
Mr.  Micawber." 

I  acceded  to  this  the  more  readily,  because  I  now  re- 
proached myself  with  having  treated  her  former  letter  rather 
lightly.  It  had  set  me  thinking  a  good  deal  at  the  time,  as  I 
have  mentioned  in  its  place  ;  but  my  absorption  in  my  own 
affairs,  my  experience  of  the  family,  and  my  hearing  nothing 
more,  had  gradually  ended  in  my  dismissing  the  subject.  I 
had  often  thought  of  the  Micawbers,  but  chiefly  to  wonder 
what  "  pecuniary  liabilities"  they  were  establishing  in  Can- 
terbury, and  to  recall  how  shy  Mr.  Micawber  was  of  me 
when  he  became  clerk  to  Uriah  Heep. 

However,  I  now  wrote  a  comforting  letter  to  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber, in  our  joint  names,  and  we  both  signed  it.  As  we  walked 
into  town  to  post  it,  Traddles  and  I  had  a  long  conference, 
and  launched  into  a  number  of  speculations,  which  I  need 
not  repeat.  We  took  my  aunt  into  our  counsels  in  the  after- 
noon; but  our  only  decided  conclusion  was,  that  we  would 
be  very  punctual  in  keeping  Mr.  Micawber's  appointment. 

Although  we  appeared  at  the  stipulated  place  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  the  time,  we  found  Mr.  Micawber  already 
there.  He  was  standing  with  his  arms  folded,  over  against 
the  wall,  looking  at  the  spikes  on  the  top,  with  a  sentimental 
expression,  as  if  they  were  the  interlacing  boughs  of  trees 
that  had  shaded  him  in  his  youth. 

When  we  accosted  him,  his  manner  was  something  more 
confused,  and  something  less  genteel,  than  of  yore.  He  had 
relinquished  his  legal  suit  of  black  for  the  purposes  of  this 
excursion,  and  wore  the  old  surtout  and  tights,  but  not  quite 
with  the  old  air.  He  gradually  picked  up  more  and  more 
of  it  as  we  conversed  with  him;  but    his   very   eye-glass 


698  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

seemed  to  hang  less  easily,  and  his  shirt  collar,  though  still 
of  the  old  formidable  dimensions,  rattier  drooped. 
^  "Gentlemen!"  said  Mr  Micawber,  after  the  first  saluta- 
tions, "  you  are  friends  in  need,  and  friends  indeed.  Allow 
me  to  offer  my  inquiries  with  reference  to  the  physical  wel- 
fare of  Mrs.  Copperfield  in  esse,  and  Mrs.  Traddles  in  posse, 
— presuming,  that  is  to  say,  that  my  friend  Mr.  Traddles  is 
not  yet  united  to  the  object  of  his  affections,  for  weal  and 
for  woe." 

We  acknowledged  his  politeness  and  made  suitable  re- 
plies. He  then  directed  our  attention  to  the  wall,  and 
was  beginning,  "  I  assure  you,  gentlemen,"  when  I  ven- 
tured to  object  to  that  ceremonious  form  of  address,  and 
to  beg  that  he  would  speak  to  us  in  the  old  way. 

*'  My  dear  Copperfield,"  he  returned,  pressing  my  hand, 
**  your  cordiality  overpowers  me.  This  reception  of  a  shat- 
tered fragment  of  a  Temple  once  called  Man — if  I  may  be 
permitted  so  to  express  myself — bespeaks  a  heart  that  is  an 
honor  to  our  common  nature.  I  was  about  to  observe  that 
I  again  behold  the  serene  spot  where  some  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  my  existence  fleeted  by." 

"  Made  so,  I  am  sure,  by  Mrs.  Micawber,"  said  I.  "  I 
hope  she  is  well  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  whose  face  clouded 
at  this  reference,  "  she  is  but  so-so.  And  this,"  said  Mr.  Mic- 
awber, nodding  his  head  sorrowfully,  "is  the  Bench! 
Where,  for  the  first  time  in  many  revolving  years,  the  over- 
whelming pressure  of  pecuniary  liabilities  was  not  pro- 
claimed, from  day  to  day,  by  importunate  voices  declining  to 
vacate  the  passage;  where  there  was  no  knocker  on  the  door 
for  any  creditor  to  appeal  to;  where  personal  service  of  pro- 
cess was  not  required,  and  detainers  were  merely  lodged  at 
the  gate!  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "when  the  shadow 
of  that  iron-work  on  the  summit  of  the  brick  structure  has 
been  reflected  on  the  gravel  of  the  Parade,  I  have  seen  my 
children  thread  the  mazes  of  the  intricate  pattern,  avoiding 
the  dark  marks.  I  have  been  familiar  with  every  stone  in 
the  place.  If  I  betray  weakness,  you  will  know  how  to  ex- 
cuse me." 

"  We  have  all  got  on  in  life  since  then,  Mr.  Micawber," 
said  I. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bitterly, 
"  when  I  was  an  inmate  of  that  retreat  I  could  look  my 
fellow-man  in  the  face,  and  punch  his  head  if  he  offended 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  699 

me.     My   fellow-man  and   myself  are  no  longer  on  those 
glorious  terms." 

Turning  from  the  building  in  a  downcast  manner,  Mr. 
Micawber  accepted  my  proffered  arm  on  one  side,  and  the 
proffered  arm  of  Traddles  on  the  other,  and  walked  away 
between  us. 

"There  are  some  landmarks,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber, 
looking  fondly  back  over  his  shoulder,  "  on  the  road  to  the 
tomb,  which,  but  for  the  impiety  of  the  aspiration,  a  man 
would  wish  never  to  have  passed.  Such  is  the  Bench  in  my 
checkered  career." 

"  Oh,  you  are  in  low  spirits,  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  Traddles. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  interposed  Mr.  Micawber. 

"I  hope,"  said  Traddles,  "it  is  not  because  you  have 
conceived  a  dislike  to  the  law — for  I  am  a  lawyer  myself, 
you  know." 

Mr.  Micawber  answered  not  a  word. 

"  How  is  our  friend  Heep,  Mr.  Micawber  ?"  said  I,  after 
a  silence. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bursting 
into  a  state  of  much  excitement,  and  turning  pale,  *'if  you 
ask  after  my  employer  as  j^ar  friend,  I  am  sorry  for  it;  if 
you  ask  after  him  as  my  friend,  I  sardonically  smile  at  it. 
In  whatever  capacity  you  ask  after  my  employer,  I  beg, 
without  offense  to  you,  to  limit  my  reply  to  this — that  what- 
ever his  state  of  health  may  be,  his  appearance  is  foxy:  not 
to  say  diabolical.  You  will  allow  me,  as  a  private  individ- 
ual, to  decline  pursuing  a  subject  which  has  lashed  me  to 
the  utmost  verge  of  desperation  in  my  professional  capacity." 

I  expressed  my  regret  for  having  innocently  touched  upon 
a  theme  that  roused  him  so  much.  "  May  I  ask,"  said  I, 
"  without  any  hazard  of  repeating  the  mistake,  how  my  old 
friends  Mr.  and  Miss  Wickfield  are  ?" 

"  Miss  Wickfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  now  turning  red, 
"  is,  as  she  always  is,  a  pattern,  and  a  bright  example.  My 
dear  Copperfield,  she  is  the  only  starry  spot  in  a  miserable 
existence.  My  respect  for  that  young  lady,  my  admiration 
of  her  character,  my  devotion  to  her  for  her  love,  and  truth, 
and  goodness  ! — Take  me,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '*  down  a 
turning,  for,  upon  my  soul,  in  my  present  state  of  mind  1 
am  not  equal  to  this  !" 

We  wheeled  him  off  into  a  narrow  street,  where  he  took  out 
his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  a  wall. 


700  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

If  I  looked  as  gravely  at  him  as  Traddles  did,  he  must  have 
found  our  company  by  no  means  inspiriting. 

"  It  is  my  fate,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  unfeignedly  sobbing, 
but  doing  even  that,  with  a  shadow  of  the  old  expression  of 
doing  something  genteel;  "it  is  my  fate,  gentlemen,  that  the 
finer  feelinp;s  of  our  nature  have  become  reproaches  to  me. 
My  homage  to  Miss  Wickfield  is  a  flight  of  arrows  in  my 
bosom.  You  had  better  leave  me,  if  you  please,  to  walk  the 
earth  as  a  vagabond.  The  worm  will  settle  my  business  in 
double-quick  time." 

Without  attending  to  this  invocation,  we  stood  by,  until 
he  put  up  his  pocket-handkerchief,  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar, 
and,  to  delude  any  person  in  the  neighborhood  who  might 
have  been  observing  him,  hummed  a  tune  with  his  hat  very 
much  on  one  side.  I  then  mentioned — not  knowing  what 
might  be  lost,  if  we  lost  sight  of  him  yet — that  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  introduce  him  to  my  aunt,  if  he 
would  ride  out  to  Highgate,  where  a  bed  was  at  his  service. 

**  You  shall  make  us  a  glass  of  your  own  punch,  Mr.  Mic- 
awber," said  I,  "  and  forget  whatever  you  have  on  your 
mind  in  pleasanter  reminiscences." 

"  Or,  if  confiding  anything  to  friends  will  be  more  likely 
to  relieve  you,  you  shall  impart  it  to  us,  Mr.  Micawber," 
said  Traddles,  prudently. 

"  Gentlemen,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  do  with  me  as 
you  will!  I  am  a  straw  upon  the  surface  of  the  deep,  and 
am  tossed  in  all  directions  by  the  elephants — I  beg  your 
pardon;  I  should  have  said  the  elements." 

We  walked  on,  arm-in-arm,  again;  found  the  coach  in  the 
act  of  starting;  and  arrived  at  Highgate  without  encounter- 
ing any  difficulties  by  the  way.  I  was  very  uneasy  and  very 
uncertain  in  my  mind  what  to  say  or  do  for  the  best — so 
was  Traddles,  evidently.  Mr.  Micawber  was  for  the  most 
part  plunged  into  deep  gloom.  He  occasionally  made  an 
attempt  to  smarten  himself,  and  hum  the  fag-end  of  a  tune; 
but  his  relapses  into  profound  melancholy  were  only  made 
the  more  impressive  by  the  mockery  of  a  hat  exceedingly  on 
one  side,  and  the  shirt-collar  pulled  up  to  his  eyes. 

We  went  to  my  aunt's  house  rather  than  to  mine,  because 
of  Dora's  not  being  well.  My  aunt  presented  herself  on  be- 
ing sent  for,  and  welcomed  Mr.  Micawber  with  gracious 
cordiality.  Mr.  Micawber  kissed  her  hand,  retired  to  the 
window,  and  pulling  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  had  a 
mental  wrestle  with  himseii. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  701 

Mr.  Dick  was  at  home.  He  was  by  nature  so  exceed- 
ingly compassionate  of  any  one  who  seemed  to  be  ill  at  ease, 
and  was  so  quick  to  find  any  such  person  out,  that  he  shook 
hands  with  Mr.  Micawber  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  in  five 
minutes.  To  Mr.  Micawber,  in  his  trouble,  this  warmth,  on 
the  part  of  a  stranger,  was  so  extremely  touching,  that  he 
could  only  say,  on  the  occasion  of  each  successive  shake, 
"  My  dear  sir,  you  overpower  me!"  Which  gratified  Mr. 
Dick  so  much,  that  he  went  at  it  again  with  greater  vigor 
than  before. 

"  The  friendliness  of  this  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Micawber 
to  my  aunt,  "  if  you  will  allow  me,  ma'am,  to  cull  a  figure  of 
speech  from  the  vocabulary  of  our  coarser  national  sports — 
floors  me.  To  a  man  who  is  struggling  with  a  complicated 
burden  of  perplexity  and  disquiet,  such  a  reception  is  trying, 
I  assure  you." 

"  My  friend  Mr.  Dick,"  replied  my  aunt,  proudly,  "  is  not 
a  common  man." 

*'  That  I  am  convinced  of,"  said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  My 
dear  sir!"  for  Mr.  Dick  was  shaking  hands  with  him  again; 
"  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  cordiality." 

''  How  do  you  find  yourself?"  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an 
anxious  look. 

"  Indifferent,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  sigh- 
ing. 

"  You  must  keep  up  your  spirits,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  and 
make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  possible." 

Mr.  Micawber  was  quite  overcome  by  these  friendly  words, 
and  by  finding  Mr.  Dick's  hand  again  within  his  own.  "  It 
has  been  my  lot,"  he  observed,  *'  to  meet,  in  the  diversified 
panorama  of  human  existence,  with  an  occasional  oasis,  but 
never  with  one  so  green,  so  gushing,  as  the  present!" 

At  another  time  I  should  have  been  amused  by  this;  but 
I  felt  that  we  were  all  constrained  and  uneasy,  and  I  watched 
Mr.  Micawber  so  anxiously,  in  his  vacillations  between  an 
evident  disposition  to  reveal  something,  and  a  counter-dis- 
position to  reveal  nothing,  that  I  was  in  a  perfect  fever. 
Traddles,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open,  and  his  hair  more  emphatically  erect  than  ever,  stared 
by  turns  at  the  ground  and  at  Mr.  Micawber,  without  so 
much  as  attempting  to  put  in  a  word.  My  aunt,  though  I 
saw  that  her  shrewdest  observation  was  concentrated  on  her 


702  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

new  guest,  had  more  useful  possession  of  her  wits  than 
either  of  us;  for  she  held  him  in  conversation,  and  made  it 
necessary  for  him  to  talk,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

"  You  are  a  very  old  friend  of  my  nephew's,  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  wish  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  before." 

"  Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  I  wish  I  had  had 
the  honor  of  knowing  you  at  an  earlier  period.  I  was  not 
always  the  wreck  you  at  present  behold." 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Micawber  and  your  family  are  well,  sir," 
said  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  inclined  his  head.  "  They  are  as  well, 
ma'am,"  he  desperately  observed  after  a  pause,  "  as  Aliens 
and  Outcasts  can  ever  hope  to  be." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  sir  !"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  in  her  abrupt 
way.     "  What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  The  subsistence  of  my  family,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr. 
Micawber,  **  trembles  in  the  balance.     My  employer " 

Here  Mr.  Micawber  provokingly  left  off ;  and  began  to 
peel  the  lemons  that  had  been  under  my  directions  set  be- 
fore him,  together  with  all  the  other  appliances  he  used  in 
making  punch. 

"  Your  employer,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  jogging  his 
arm  as  a  gentle  reminder. 

"  My  good  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  you  recall  me. 
I  am  obliged  to  you."  They  shook  hands  again.  "  My  em- 
ployer, ma'am — Mr.  Heep — once  did  me  the  favor  to  observe 
to  me,  that  if  I  were  not  in  the  receipt  of  the  stipendiary  emol- 
uments appertaining  to  my  engagement  with  him,  I  should 
probably  be  a  mountebank  about  the  country,  swallowing  a 
sword-blade,  and  eating  the  devouring  element.  For  any- 
thing that  I  can  perceive  to  the  contrary,  it  is  still  probable 
that  my  children  may  be  reduced  to  seek  a  livelihood  by 
personal  contortion,  while  Mrs.  Micawber  abets  their  unnat- 
ural feats,  by  playing  the  barrel-organ." 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  random  but  expressive  flourish  of 
his  knife,  signified  that  these  performances  might  be  expected 
to  take  place  after  he  was  no  more;  then  resumed  his  peel- 
ing with  a  desperate  air. 

My  aunt  leaned  her  elbow  on  a  little  round  table  that  she 
usually  kept  beside  her,  and  eyed  him  attentively.  Notwith- 
standing the  aversion  with  which  I  regarded  the  idea  of  en- 
trapping him  into  any  disclosure  he  was  not  prepared  to 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  703 

make  voluntarily,  I  should  have  taken  him  up  at  this  point, 
but  for  the  strange  proceedings  in  which  I  saw  him  engaged, 
whereof  his  putting  the  lemon-peel  into  the  kettle,  the  sugar 
into  the  snuffer-tray,  the  spirit  into  the  empty  jug,  and  con- 
fidently attempting  to  pour  boiling  water  out  of  a  candle- 
stick, were  among  the  most  remarkable.  I  saw  that  a  crisis 
was  at  hand,  and  it  came.  He  clattered  all  his  means  and 
implements  together,  rose  from  his  chair,  pulled  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  behind  his 
handkerchief,  "  this  is  an  occupation,  of  all  others,  requiring 
an  untroubled  mind,  and  self-respect.  I  cannot  perform  it. 
It  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  I,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Pray  speak 
out.     You  are  among  friends." 

"  Among  friends,  sir  !"  repeated  Mr.  Micawber;  and  all  he 
had  reserved  came  breaking  out  of  him.  "  Good  heavens,  it 
is  principally  because  I  am  among  friends  that  my  state  of 
mind  is  what  it  is.  What  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ?  What  is 
not  the  matter?  Villainy  is  the  matter;  baseness  is  the  mat- 
ter; deception,  fraud,  conspiracy,  are  the  matter;  and  the 
name  of  the  whole  atrocious  mass  is — Heep  !" 

My  aunt  clapped  her  hands,  and  we  all  started  up  as  if 
we  were  possessed. 

"  The  struggle  is  over  !"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  violently  ges- 
ticulating with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  fairly  striking 
out  from  time  to  time  with  both  arms,  as  if  he  were  swim- 
ming under  superhuman  difficulties.  *'  I  will  lead  this  life  no 
longer.  I  am  a  wretched  being,  cut  off  from  everything  that 
makes  life  tolerable.  I  have  been  under  a  Taboo  in  that  in- 
fernal scoundrel's  service.  Give  me  back  my  wife,  give  me 
back  my  family,  substitute  Micawber  for  the  petty  wretch 
who  walks  about  in  the  boots  at  present  on  my  feet,  and  call 
upon  me  to  swallow  a  sword  to-morrow,  and  I'll  do  it  with 
an  appetite  !" 

\  never  saw  a  man  so  hot  in  my  life.  I  tried  to  calm  him, 
that  we  might  come  to  something  rational;  but  he  got  hotter 
and  hotter,  and  wouldn't  hear  a  word. 

"  I'll  put  my  hand  in  no  man's  hand,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
gasping,  puffing,  and  sobbing,  to  that  degree  that  he  was  like 
a  man  fighting  with  cold  water,  "  until  I  have — blown  to  frag- 
ments— the — a — detestable — serpent — Heep  !  I'll  partake 
of  no  one's  hospitality,   until  I  have — a — moved  Mount 


704  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Vesuvius — to  eruption — on — a — the  abandoned  rascal — 
Heep  !  Refreshment — a — underneath  this  roof — particu- 
larly punch — would — a — choke  me — unless — I  had — pre- 
viously— choked  the  eyes — out  of  the  head — a — of — inter- 
minable cheat,  and  liar — Heep  !  I — a — I'll  know  nobody 
—and — a — say  nothing — and — a — live  nowhere — until  I 
have  crushed — to — a — undiscoverable  atoms— the — trans- 
cendent and  immortal  hypocrite  and  perjurer — Heep  !" 

I  really  had  some  fear  of  Mr.  Micawber's  dying  on  the 
spot.  The  manner  in  which  he  struggled  through  these  in- 
articulate sentences,  and,  whenever  he  found  himself  getting 
near  the  name  of  Heep,  fought  his  way  on  to  it,  dashed  at  it 
in  a  fainting  state,  and  brought  it  out  with  a  vehemence  lit- 
tle less  than  marvelous,  was  frightful  ;  but  now,  when  he 
sank  into  a  chair,  steaming,  and  looked  at  us,  with  every 
possible  color  in  his  face  that  had  no  business  there,  and  an 
endless  procession  of  lumps  following  one  another  in  hot 
haste  up  his  throat,  whence  they  seemed  to  shoot  into  his 
forehead,  he  had  the  appearance  of  being  in  the  last  ex- 
tremity. I  would  have  gone  to  his  assistance,  but  he  waved 
me  off,  and  wouldn't  hear  a  word. 

"No,  Copperfield ! — No — communication — a — until — Miss 
Wickfield — a — redress  from  wrongs  inflicted  by  consummate 
scoundrel — Heep!"  (I  am  quite  convinced  he  could  not 
have  uttered  these  words,  but  for  the  amazing  energy  with 
which  this  word  inspired  him  when  he  felt  it  coming.)  '*  In- 
violable secret — a — from  the  whole  world — a — no  excep- 
tions— this  day  week — a — at  breakfast  time — a — everybody 
present — including  aunt — a — and  extremely  friendly  gentle- 
man— to  be  at  the  hotel  at  Canterbury — a — where — Mrs. 
Micawber  and  myself — Auld  Lang  Syne  in  chorus — and — a 
— will  expose  intolerable  ruffian — Heep!  No  more  to  say — 
a — or  listen  to  persuasion — go  immediately — not  capable — 
a — bear  society — upon  the  track  of  devoted  and  doomed 
traitor — Heep!" 

With  this  last  repetition  of  the  magic  word  that  had  kept 
him  going  at  all,  and  in  which  he  surpassed  all  his  previous 
efforts,  Mr.  Micawber  rushed  out  of  the  house;  leaving  us 
in  a  state  of  excitement,  hope,  and  wonder,  that  reduced  us 
to  a  condition  little  better  than  his  own.  But  even  then  his 
passion  for  writing  letters  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted;  for 
while  we  were  yet  in  the  height  of  our  excitement,  hope,  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  705 

wonder,  the  following  pastoral  note  was  brought  to  me  from 
a  neighboring  tavern,  at  which  he  had  called  to  write  it: — 

"  Most  secret  and  confidential. 

"  My  dear  Sir, 

"  I  beg  to  be  allowed  to  convey,  through  you,  my 
apologies  to  your  excellent  aunt  for  my  late  excitement.  An 
explosion  of  a  smouldering  volcano  long  suppressed,  was  the 
result  of  an  infernal  contest  more  easily  conceived  than 
described. 

"  I  trust  I  rendered  tolerably  intelligible  my  appointment 
V  for  the  morning  of  this  day  week,  at  the  house  of  public  en- 
tertainment at  Canterbury,  where  Mrs.  Micawber  and  my- 
self had  once  the  honor  of  uniting  our  voices  to  yours,  in  the 
well-known  strain  of  the  Immortal  exciseman  nurtured  be- 
yond the  Tweed. 

"  The  duty  done,  and  act  of  reparation  performed,  which 
can  alone  enable  me  to  contemplate  my  fellow  mortal,  I 
shall  be  known  no  more.  I  shall  simply  require  to  be  de- 
posited in  that  place  of  universal  resort,  where 

•*  *  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.* 

'  "—With  the  plain  inscription, 

"WiLKiNs  Micawber." 


7o6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  L. 

MR.  PEGGOTTY'S  dream  COMES  TRUE. 

By  this  time,  some  months  had  passed,  since  our  inter- 
view on  the  bank  of  the  river  with  Martha.  I  had  never 
seen  her  since,  but  she  had  communicated  with  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty  on  several  occasions.  Nothing  had  come  of  her  zeal- 
ous intervention;  nor  could  I  infer,  from  what  he  told  me, 
that  any  clue  had  ever  been  obtained,  for  a  moment,  to 
Emily's  fate.  I  confess  that  I  began  to  despair  of  her  re- 
covery, and  gradually  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
belief  that  she  was  dead. 

His  conviction  remained  unchanged.  So  far  as  I  know — 
and  I  believe  his  honest  heart  was  transparent  to  me — he 
never  wavered  again,  in  his  solemn  certainty  of  finding  her. 
His  patience  never  tired.  And,  although  I  trembled  for  the 
agony  it  might  one  day  be  to  him  to  have  his  strong  assur- 
ance shivered  at  a  blow,  there  was  something  so  religious  in 
it,  so  affectingly  expressive  of  its  anchor  being  in  the  purest 
depths  of  his  fine  nature,  that  the  respect  and  honor  in  which 
I  held  him  were  exalted  every  day. 

His  was  not  a  lazy  trustfulness  that  hoped,  and  did  no 
more.  He  had  been  a  man  of  sturdy  action  all  his  life,  and 
he  knew  that  in  all  things  wherein  he  wanted  help  he  must 
do  his  own  part  faithfully,  and  help  himself.  I  have  known 
him  set  out  in  the  night,  on  a  misgiving  that  the  light 
might  not  be,  by  some  accident,  in  the  window  of  the  old 
boat,  and  walk  to  Yarmouth.  I  have  known  him,  on  read- 
ing something  in  the  newspaper  that  might  apply  to  her, 
take  up  his  stick,  and  go  forth  on  a  journey  of  three  or  four 
score  miles.  He  made  his  way  by  sea  to  Naples,  and  back, 
after  hearing  the  narrative  to  which  Miss  Dartle  had  assisted 
me.  All  his  journeys  were  ruggedly  performed;  for  he  was 
always  steadfast  in  a  purpose  of  saving  money  for  Emily's 
sake,  when  she  should  be  found.  In  all  this  long  pursuit,  I 
never  heard  him  repine;  I  never  heard  him  say  he  was  fa- 
tigued, or  out  of  heart. 

Dora  had  often  seen  him  since  our  marriage,  and  was 
quite  fond  of  him.  I  fancy  his  figure  before  me  now,  stand- 
ing near  her  sofa,  with  his  rough  cap  in  his  hand  and  the 
blue  eyes  of  my  child-wife  raised,  with  a  timid  wonder,  to 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  707' 

his  face.  Sometimes  of  an  evening,  about  twilight,  when 
he  came  to  talk  with  me,  I  would  induce  him  to  smoke  his 
pipe  in  the  garden,  as  we  slowly  paced  to  and  fro  together; 
and  then,  the  picture  of  his  deserted  home,  and  the  com- 
fortable air  it  used  to  have  in  my  childish  eyes  of  an  even- 
ing when  the  fire  was  burning,  and  the  wind  moaning  round 
it,  came  most  vividly  into  my  mind. 

One  evening,  at  this  hour,  he  told  me  that  he  had  found 
Martha  waiting  near  his  lodging  on  the  preceding  night 
when  he  came  out,  and  that  she  had  asked  him  not  to 
leave  London  on  any  account,  until  he  should  see  her 
again. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  why  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  asked  her,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  replied,  "but  it  is  but  few 
words  as  she  ever  says,  and  she  on'y  got  my  promise  and 
Eo  went  away." 

**  Did  she  say  when  you  might  expect  to  see  her  again  ?" 
I  demanded. 

"  No,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned,  drawing  his  hand  thought- 
fully down  his  face.  "  I  asked  that  too,  but  it  was  more 
(she  said)  than  she  could  tell." 

As  I  had  long  forborne  to  encourage  him  with  hopes  that 
hung  on  threads,  I  made  no  other  comment  on  this  infor- 
mation than  that  I  supposed  he  would  see  her  soon.  Such 
speculations  as  it  engendered  within  me  I  kept  to  myself, 
and  those  were  faint  enough. 

I  was  walking  alone  in  the  garden,  one  evening,  about  a 
fortnight  afterwards.  I  remember  that  evening  well.  It 
was  the  second  in  Mr.  Micawber's  week  of  suspense.  There 
had  been  rain  all  day,  and  there  was  a  damp  feeling  in  the 
air.  The  leaves  were  thick  upon  the  trees,  and  heavy  with 
wet;  but  the  rain  had  ceased,  though  the  sky  was  still  dark; 
and  the  hopeful  birds  were  singing  cheerfully.  As  I  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  garden,  and  the  twilight  began  to  close 
around  me,  their  little  voices  were  hushed;  and  that  pecu- 
liar silence  which  belongs  to  such  an  evening  in  the  country 
when  the  lightest  trees  are  quite  still,  save  for  the  occa- 
sional droppings  from  their  boughs,  prevailed. 

There  was  a  little  green  perspective  of  trellis-work  and 
ivy  at  the  side  of  our  cottage,  through  which  I  could  see, 
from  the  garden  where  I  was  walking,  into  the  road  before 
the  house.  I  happened  to  turn  my  eyes  towards  this  place, 
as  I  was  thinking  of  many  things;  and  I  saw  a  figure  be* 


7o8  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

yond,  dressed  in  a  plain  cloak.  It  was  bending  eagerly  to- 
wards me,  and  beckoning. 

"  Martha!"  said  I,  going  to  it. 

"  Can  you  come  with  me?"  she  inquired,  in  an  agitated 
whisper.  "  I  have  been  to  him,  and  he  is  not  at  home.  I 
wrote  down  where  he  was  to  come,  and  left  it  on  his  table 
with  my  own  hand.  They  said  he  would  not  be  out  long. 
I  have  tidings  for  him.     Can  you  come  directly?" 

My  answer  was  to  pass  out  at  the  gate  immediately.  She 
made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand,  as  if  to  entreat  my 
patience  and  my  silence,  and  turned  towards  London, 
whence,  as  her  dress  betokened,  she  had  come  expeditiously 
on  foot. 

I  asked  her  if  that  were  not  our  destination?  On  her 
motioning  Yes,  with  the  same  hasty  gesture  as  before,  I 
stopped  an  empty  coach  that  was  coming  by,  and  we  got 
into  it.  When  I  asked  her  where  the  coachman  was  to 
drive,  she  answered  "Anywhere  near  Golden  Square!  And 
quick!" — then  shrunk  into  a  corner,  with  one  trembling  hand 
before  her  face,  and  the  other  making  the  former  gesture,  as 
if  she  could  not  bear  a  voice. 

Now  much  disturbed,  and  dazzled  with  conflicting  gleams 
of  hope  and  dread,  I  looked  at  her  for  some  explanation. 
But,  seeing  how  strongly  she  desired  to  remain  quiet,  and 
feeling  that  it  was  my  own  natural  inclination  too,  at  such  a 
time,  I  did  not  attempt  to  break  the  silence.  We  proceeded 
without  a  word  being  spoken.  Sometimes  she  glanced  out 
of  the  window,  as  though  she  thought  we  were  going  slowly, 
though  indeed  we  were  going  fast;  but  otherwise  remained 
exactly  as  at  first. 

We  alighted  at  one  of  the  entrances  to  the  Square  she  had 
mentioned,  where  I  directed  the  coach  to  wait,  not  knowing 
but  that  we  might  have  some  occasion  for  it.  She  laid  her 
hand  upon  my  arm,  and  hurried  me  on  to  one  of  the  somber 
streets,  of  which  there  are  several  in  that  part,  where  the 
houses  were  once  fair  dwellings  in  the  occupation  of  single 
families,  but  have,  and  had,  long  degenerated  into  poor 
lodgings  let  off  in  rooms.  Entering  at  the  open  door  of  one 
of  these,  and  releasing  my  arm,  she  beckoned  me  to  follow 
her  up  the  common  staircase,  which  was  like  a  tributary 
channel  to  the  street. 

The  house  swarmed  with  inmates.  As  we  went  up,  doors 
of  rooms  were  opened  and  people's  heads  put  out;  and  we 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  709 

passed  other  people  on  the  stairs,  who  were  coming  down. 
In  glancing  up  from  the  outside,  before  we  entered,  I  had 
seen  women  and  children  lolling  at  the  windows  over  flower- 
pots; and  we  seemed  to  have  attracted  their  curiosity,  for 
these  were  principally  the  observers  who  looked  out  of  their 
doors.  It  was  a  broad  paneled  staircase,  with  massive  balus- 
trades of  some  dark  wood;  cornices  above  the  doors,  orna- 
mented with  carved  fruit  and  flowers;  and  broad  seats  in  the 
windows.  But  all  these  tokens  of  past  grandeur  were  mis- 
erably decayed  and  dirty;  rot,  damp,  and  age,  had  weakened 
the  flooring,  which  in  many  places  was  unsound  and  even 
unsafe.  Some  attempts  had  been  made,  I  noticed,  to  infuse 
new  blood  into  this  dwindling  frame,  by  repairing  the  costly 
old  wood-work  here  and  there  with  common  deal;  but  it 
was  like  the  marriage  of  a  reduced  old  noble  to  a  plebeian 
pauper,  and  each  party  to  the  ill-assorted  union  shrunk  away 
from  the  other.  Several  of  the  back  windows  on  the  stair- 
case had  been  darkened  or  wholly  blocked  up.  In  those  that 
remained,  there  was  scarcely  any  glass;  and,  through  the 
crumbling  frames  by  which  the  bad  air  seemed  always  to 
come,  and  never  to  go  out,  I  saw,  through  other  glassless 
windows,  into  other  houses  in  a  similar  condition,  and  looked 
giddily  down  into  a  wretched  yard  which  was  the  common 
dust-heap  of  the  mansion. 

We  proceeded  to  the  top-story  of  the  house.  Two  or 
three  times,  by  the  way,  I  thought  I  observed  in  the  indis> 
tinct  light  the  skirts  of  a  female  figure  going  up  before  us. 
As  we  turned  to  ascend  the  last  flight  of  stairs  between  us 
and  the  roof,  we  caught  a  full  view  of  this  figure  pausing 
for  a  moment,  at  a  door.  Then  it  turned  the  handle  and 
went  in. 

"  What's  this!"  said  Martha,  in  a  whisper.  "  She  has  gone 
into  my  room.     I  don't  know  her!" 

/  knew  her.  I  recognized  her  with  amazement,  for  Miss 
Dartle. 

I  said  something  to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  lady  whom  I 
had  seen  before,  in  a  few  words,  to  my  conductress;  and  had 
scarcely  done  so,  when  we  heard  her  voice  in  the  room, 
though  not,  from  where  we  stood,  what  she  was  saying. 
Martha,  with  an  astonished  look,  repeated  her  former  action, 
and  softly  led  me  up  the  stairs;  and  then,  by  a  little  back 
door  which  seemed  to  have  no  lock,  and  which  she  pushed 
open  with  a  touch,  into  a  small  empty  garret  with  a  low 


7IO  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

sloping  roof:  little  better  than  a  cupboard.  Between  this, 
and  the  room  she  had  called  hers,  there  was  a  small  door  of 
communication,  standing  partly  open.  Here  we  stopped, 
breathless  with  our  ascent,  and  she  placed  her  hand  lightly 
upon  my  lips.  I  could  only  see,  of  the  room  beyond,  that 
it  was  pretty  large;  that  there  was  a  bed  in  it;  and  that  there 
were  some  common  pictures  of  ships  upon  the  walls.  I  could 
not  see  Miss  Dartle,  or  the  person  whom  we  had  heard  her 
address.  Certainly,  my  companion  could  not,  for  my  position 
was  the  best. 

A  dead  silence  prevailed  for  some  moments.  Martha 
kept  one  hand  on  my  lips,  and  raised  the  other  in  a  listen- 
ing attitude. 

"  It  matters  little  to  me  her  not  being  at  home,"  said 
Rosa  Dartle,  haughtily,  *'  I  know  nothing  of  her.  It  is  you 
I  come  to  see." 

"  Me?"  replied  a  soft  voice. 

At  the  sound  of  it  a  thrill  went  through  my  frame.  For 
it  was  Emily's! 

"Yes,"  returned  Miss  Dartle,  "I  have  come  to  look  at 
you.  What?  You  are  not  ashamed  of  the  face  that  has 
done  so  much?" 

The  resolute  and  unrelenting  hatred  of  her  tone,  its  cold 
stern  sharpness,  and  its  mastered  rage,  presented  her 
before  me,  as  if  I  had  seen  her  standing  in  the  light.  I  saw 
the  flashing  black  eyes,  and  the  passion-wasted  figure;  and 
I  saw  the  scar,  with  its  white  track  cutting  through  her  lips, 
quivering  and  throbbing  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  have  come  to  see,"  she  said,  "  James  Steerforth's 
fancy;  the  girl  who  ran  away  with  him,  and  is  the  town- 
talk  of  the  commonest  people  of  her  native  place;  the  bold, 
flaunting,  practised  companion  of  persons  like  James  Steer- 
forth.     I  want  to  know  what  such  a  thing  is  like." 

There  was  a  rustle,  as  if  the  unhappy  girl,  on  whom  she 
heaped  these  taunts,  ran  towards  the  door,  and  the  speaker 
swiftly  interposed  herself  before  it.  It  was  succeeded  by  a 
moment's  pause. 

When  Miss  Dartle  spoke  again,  it  was  through  her  set 
teeth,  and  with  a  stamp  upon  the  ground. 

"  Stay  there!"  she  said,  ^'  or  I  '11  proclaim  you  to  the  house, 
and  to  the  whole  street!  If  you  try  to  evade  fne,  I  '11  stop 
you,  if  it's  by  the  hair,  and  raise  the  very  stones  against 
you!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  711 

A  frightened  murmur  was  the  only  reply  that  reached  my 
ears.  A  silence  succeeded.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Much  as  I  desired  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview,  I  felt 
that  I  had  no  right  to  present  myself;  that  it  was  for  Mr. 
Peggotty  alone  to  see  her  and  recover  her.  Would  he 
never  come?  I  thought  impatiently. 

"So!"  said  Rosa  Dartle,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh,  "  I 
see  her  at  last!  Why,  he  was  a  poor  creature  to  be  taken 
by  that  delicate  mock-modesty,  and  that  hanging  head!" 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  spare  me!"  exclaimed  Emily. 
"  Whoever  you  are,  you  know  my  pitiable  story,  and  for 
Heaven's  sake,  spare  me,  if  you  would  be  spared  your- 
self!" 

"  If  /  would  be  spared!"  returned  the  other,  fiercely, 
"  what  is  there  in  common  between  us^  do  you  think?" 

"  Nothing  but  our  sex,"  said  Emily,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  And  that,"  said  Rosa  Dartle,  "  is  so  strong  a  claim,  pre- 
ferred by  one  so  infamous,  that  if  I  had  any  feeling  in  my 
breast  but  scorn  and  abhorrence  of  you,  it  would  freeze  it 
up.     Our  sex!     You  are  an  honor  to  our  sex!" 

"I  have  deserved  this,"  cried  Emily,  "but  it's  dreadful! 
Dear,  dear  lady,  think  what  I  have  suffered,  and  how  I  am 
fallen!     Oh,  Martha,  comeback!     Oh,  home, home!" 

Miss  Dartle  placed  herself  in  a  chair,  within  view  of  the 
door,  and  looked  downward,  as  if  Emily  were  crouching  on 
the  floor  before  her. 

Being  now  between  me  and  the  light,  I  could  see  her 
curled  lip,  and  her  cruel  eyes  intently  fixed  on  one  place, 
with  a  greedy  triumph. 

"Listen  to  what  I  say!"  she  said;  "and  reserve  your 
false  arts  for  your  dupes.  Do  you  hope  to  move  me  by 
your  tears?  No  more  than  you  could  charm  me  by  your 
smiles,  you  purchased  slave." 

"  Oh,  have  some  mercy  on  me!"  cried  Emily.  "  Show 
me  some  compassion,  or  I  shall  die  mad!" 

"  It  would  be  no  great  penance,"  said  Rosa  Dartle,  "  for 
your  crimes.  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?  Do  you 
ever  think  of  the  home  you  have  laid  waste  ?" 

"  Oh,  is  there  ever  night  or  day,  when  I  don't  think  of  it?" 
cried  Emily;  and  now  I  could  just  see  her,  on  her  knees,  with 
her  head  thrown  back,  her  pale  face  looking  upward,her  hands 
wildly  clasped  and  held  out,  and  her  hair  streaming  about 
her.      "  Has  there  ever  been  a   single   minute,   waking  or 


712  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

sleeping,  when  it  hasn't  been  before  me,  just  as  it  used  to 
be  in  the  lost  days  when  I  turned  my  back  upon  it  for  ever 
and  for  ever!  Oh,  home,  home!  Oh  dear,  dear  uncle,  if 
you  ever  could  have  known  the  agony  your  love  would  cause 
me  when  I  fell  away  from  good,  you  never  would  have 
shown  it  to  me  so  constant,  much  as  you  felt  it;  but  would 
have  been  angry  to  me,  at  least  once  in  my  life,  that  I  might 
have  had  some  comfort!  I  have  none,  none,  no  comfort 
upon  earth,  for  all  of  them  were  always  fond  of  me!"  She 
dropped  on  her  face,  before  the  imperious  figure  in  the 
chair,  with  an  imploring  effort  to  clasp  the  skirt  of  her 
dress. 

Rosa  Dartle  sat  looking  down  upon  her,  as  inflexible  as  a 
figure  of  brass.  Her  lips  were  tightly  compressed,  as  if  she 
knew  that  she  must  keep  a  strong  restraint  upon  herself — I 
write  what  I  sincerely  believe — or  she  would  be  tempted  to 
strike  the  beautiful  form  with  her  foot.  I  saw  her,  distinct- 
ly, and  the  whole  power  of  her  face  and  character  seemed 
forced  into  that  expression.— Would  he  never  come  ? 

''The  miserable  vanity  of  these  earth-worms!"  she  said, 
when  she  had  so  far  controlled  the  angry  heavings  of  her 
breast,  that  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak.  *'  K^z/rhome! 
Do  you  imagine  that  I  bestow  a  thought  on  it,  or  suppose 
you  could  do  any  harm  to  that  low  place,  which  money 
would  not  pay  for,  and  handsomely  !  Your  home!  You 
were  a  part  of  the  trade  of  your  home,  and  were  bought 
and  sold  like  any  other  vendible  thing  your  people  dealt 
in." 

"  Oh  not  that!"  cried  Emily.  "  Say  anything  of  me;  but 
don't  visit  my  disgrace  and  shame,  more  than  I  have  done, 
on  folks  who  are  as  honorable  as  you!  Have  some  respect 
for  them  as  you  are  a  lady,  if  you  have  no  mercy  for  me." 

"  I  speak,"  she  said,  not  deigning  to  take  any  heed  of 
this  appeal,  and  drawing  away  her  dress  from  the  contami- 
nation of  Emily's  touch,  "I  speak  of  his  home — where  1 
live.  Here,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  hand  with  her 
contemptuous  laugh,  and  looking  down  upon  the  prostrate 
girl,  "  is  a  worthy  cause  of  division  between  lady-mother  and 
gentleman-son;  of  grief  in  a  house  where  she  wouldn't  have 
been  admitted  as  a  kitchen-girl ;  of  anger,  and  repining, 
and  reproach.  This  piece  of  pollution,  picked  up  from  the 
water-side,  to  be  made  much  of  for  an  hour,  and  then  tossed 
back  to  her  original  place!" 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD.  713 

"No!  no!"  cried  Emily  clasping  her  hands  together. 
"  When  he  first  came  into  my  way — that  the  day  had  never 
dawned  upon  me,  and  he  had  met  me  being  carried  to  my 
grave! — I  had  been  brought  up  as  virtuous  as  you  or  any 
lady,  and  was  going  to  be  the  wife  of  as  good  a  man  as  you 
or  any  lady  in  the  world  can  ever  marry.  If  you  live  in  his 
home,  and  know  him,  you  know,  perhaps,  what  his  power 
with  a  weak,  vain  girl  might  be.  I  don't  defend  myself,  but 
I  know  well,  and  he  knows  well,  or  he  will  know  when  he 
comes  to  die,  and  his  mind  is  troubled  with  it,  that  he  used 
all  his  power  to  deceive  me,  and  that  I  believed  him,  trusted 
him,  and  loved  him!" 

Rosa  Dartle  sprang  up  from  her  seat;  recoiled,  and  in  re- 
coiling struck  at  her,  with  a  face  of  such  malignity,  so 
darkened  and  disfigured  by  passion,  that  I  had  almost 
thrown  myself  between  them.  The  blow,  which  had  no 
aim,  fell  upon  the  air.  As  she  now  stood  panting,  looking 
at  her  with  the  utmost  detestation  that  she  was  capable  of 
expressing,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  rage  and 
scorn,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  such  a  sight,  and  never 
could  see  such  another. 

"  You  love  him  ?  You  T'  she  cried,  with  her  clenched 
hand  quivering  as  if  it  only  wanted  a  weapon  to  stab  the 
object  of  her  wrath. 

Emily  had  shrunk  out  of  my  view.      There  was  no  reply. 

"  And  tell  that  to  me^'  she  added,  "  with  your  shameful 
lips!  Why  don't  they  whip  these  creatures!  If  I  could 
order  it  to  be  done  I  would  have  the  girl  whipped  to  death." 

And  so  she  would,  I  have  no  doubt.  I  would  not  have 
trusted  her  with  the  rack  itself,  while  that  furious  look 
lasted. 

She  slowly,  very  slowly,  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  pointed 
at  Emily  with  her  hand,  as  if  she  were  a  sight  of  shame  for 
gods  and  men. 

^'  She  love!"  she  said.  "That  carrion?  And  he  ever 
cared  for  her,  she'd  tell  me  ?  Ha,  ha!  The  liars  that  these 
traders  are!" 

■  Her  mockery  was  worse  than  her  undisguised  rage.  Of 
the  two,  I  would  have  much  preferred  to  be  the  object  of 
the  latter.  But,  when  she  suffered  it  to  break  loose,  it  was 
only  for  a  moment.  She  had  chained  it  up  again,  and  how- 
ever it  might  tear  her  within,  she  subdued  it  to  herself. 

"I. came  here,  you  pure  fountain  of  love,"  she  said,  "to 


714  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

see — as  I  began  by  telling  you — what  such  a  thing  as  you 
was  like.  I  was  curious.  I  am  satisfied.  Also  to  tell  you, 
that  you  had  best  seek  that  home  of  yours,  with  all  speed, 
and  hide  your  head  among  those  excellent  people  who  are 
expecting  you,  and  whom  your  money  will  console.  When 
it's  all  gone,  you  can  believe,  and  trust,  and  love  again,  you 
know  !  I  thought  you  a  broken  toy  that  had  lasted  its  time; 
a  worthless  spangle  that  was  tarnished,  and  thrown  away. 
But,  finding  you  true  gold,  a  very  lady,  and  an  ill-used  in- 
nocent, with  a  fresh  heart  full  of  love  and  truthfulness — 
which  you  look  like,  and  is  quite  consistent  with  your  story  ! 
— I  have  something  more  to  say.  Attend  to  it;  for  what  I 
say  I'll  do.  Do  you  hear  me,you  fairy  spirit  ?  What  I  say, 
I  mean  to  do  !" 

Her  rage  got  the  better  of  her  again,  for  a  moment,  but  it 
passed  over  her  face  like  a  spasm,  and  left  her  smiling. 

"  Hide  yourself,"  she  pursued,  "  if  not  at  home,  some- 
where. Let  it  be  somewhere  beyond  reach;  in  some  ob- 
scure life — or,  better  still,  in  some  obscure  death.  I  wonder, 
if  your  loving  heart  will  not  break,  you  have  found  no  way 
of  helping  it  to  be  still  !  I  have  heard  of  such  means  some- 
times.    I  believe  they  may  be  easily  found." 

A  low  crying  on  the  part  of  Emily  interrupted  her.  She 
stopped  and  listened  to  it,  as  if  it  were  music. 

"  I  am  of  a  strange  nature,  perhaps,"  Rosa  Dartle  went  on; 
"  but  I  can't  breathe  freely  in  the  air  you  breathe.  I  find  it 
sickly.  Therefore,  I  will  have  it  cleared;  I  will  have  it  purified 
of  you.  If  you  live  here  to-morrow,  I'll  have  your  story  and 
your  character  proclaimed  on  the  common  stair.  There  are 
decent  women  in  the  house,  I  am  told;  and  it  is  a  pity  such 
a  light  as  you  should  be  among  them,  and  concealed.  If, 
leaving  here,  you  seek  any  refuge  in  this  town  in  any  char- 
acter but  your  true  one  (which  you -are  welcome  to  bear, 
without  molestation  from  me),  the  same  service  shall  be  done 
you,  if  I  hear  of  your  retreat.  Being  assisted  by  a  gentleman 
who  not  long  ago 'aspired  to  the  favor  of  your  hand,  I  am 
sanguine  as  to  that." 

Would  he  never,  never  come  ?  How  long  was  I  to  bear 
this  ?     How  long  could  I  bear  it  ? 

"  Oh  me,  oh  me  !"  exclaimed  the  wretched  Emily,  in  a 
tone  that  might  have  touched  the  hardest  heart,  I  should 
have  thought;  but  there  was  no  relenting  in  Rosa  Dartle's 
smile.     "  What,  what  shall  I  do  !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  7:5 

"  Do  ?"  returned  the  other.  "  Live  happy  iti  your  own 
reflections  !  Consecrate  your  existence  to  the  recollection  of 
James  Steerforth's  tenderness — he  would  have  made  you  his 
serving-man's  wife,  would  he  not  ? — or  to  feeling  grateful  to 
the  upright  and  deserving  creature  who  would  have  taken 
you  as  his  gift.  Or,  if  those  proud  remembrances,  and  the 
consciousness  of  your  own  virtues,  and  the  honorable  posi- 
tion to  which  they  have  raised  you  in  the  eyes  of  everything 
that  wears  the  human  shape,  will  not  sustain  you,  marry  that 
good  man,  and  be  happy  in  his  condescension.  If  this  will 
not  do,  either,  die  !  There  are  doorways  and  dustheaps  for 
such  deaths,  and  such  despair — find  one  and  take  your  flight 
to  Heaven  !" 

I  heard  a  distant  foot  upon  the  stairs.  I  knew  it,  I  was 
certain.     It  was  his,  thank  God. 

She  moved  slowly  from  before  the  door  when  she  said  this, 
and  passed  out  of  my  sight. 

"  But  mark  !"  she  added,  slowly  and  sternly,  opening  the 
door  to  go  away,  "  I  am  resolved,  for  reasons  that  I  have  and 
hatreds  that  I  entertain,  to  cast  you  out,  unless  you  withdraw 
from  my  reach  altogether,  or  drop  your  pretty  mask.  This  is 
what  I  had  to  say;  and  what  I  say,  I  mean  to  do  !" 

The  foot  upon  the  stairs  came  nearer — nearer — passed  her 
as  she  went  down — rushed  into  the  room  ! 

"Uncle!" 

A  fearful  cry  followed  the  word.  I  paused  a  moment,  and 
looking  in,  saw  him  supporting  her  insensible  figure  in  his 
arms.  He  gazed  for  a  few  seconds  in  the  face,  then  stooped 
to  kiss  it — oh,  how  tenderly  ! — and  drew  a  handkerchief  be- 
fore it. 

"  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tremulous  voice,  when  it 
was  covered,  "  I  thank  my  Heav'nly  Father  as  my  dream's 
come  true.  I  thank  him  hearty  for  having  guided  of  me,  in 
His  own  ways,  to  my  darling  !" 

With  those  words  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms;  and  with  the 
veiled  face  lying  on  his  bosom,  and  addressed  towards  his 
own,  carried  her  motionless  and  unconscious,  down  the 
stairs. 


7i6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER    LI. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF   A  LONGER  JOURNEY, 

It  was  yet  early  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day, 
when,  as  I  was  walking  in  my  garden  with  my  aunt  (who 
took  little  other  exercise  now,  being  so  much  in  attendance 
on  my  dear  Dora),  I  was  told  that  Mr.  Peggotty  desired  to 
speak  with  me.  He  came  into  the  garden  to  meet  me  half- 
way, on  my  going  towards  the  gate;  and  bared  his  head,  as 
it  was  always  his  custom  to  do  Avhen  he  saw  my  aunt,  for 
whom  he  had  a  high  respect.  I  had  been  telling  her  all 
that  had  happened  over-night.  Without  saying  a  word,  she 
walked  up  with  a  cordial  face,  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
patted  him  on  the  arm.  It  was  so  expressively  done,  that 
she  had  no  need  to  say  a  word.  Mr.  Peggotty  understood 
her  quite  as  well  as  if  she  had  said  a  thousand. 

"  I'll  go  in  now.  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  look  after 
little  Blossom,  who  will  be  getting  up  presently." 

''  Not  along  of  my  being  heer,  ma'am,  I  hope  ?"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty.  "  Unless  my  wits  is  gone  a  bahd's  neezing" — by 
which  Mr.  Peggotty  meant  to  say  bird's  nesting — "this 
morning,  'tis  along  of  me  as  you're  agoing  to  quit  us  ?" 

"You  have  something  to  say,  my  good  friend,"  returned 
my  aunt,  "and  you'll  do  better  without  me." 

"  By  your  leave,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  I 
should  take  it  kind,  pervisingyou  doen'tmind  my  clicketten, 
if  you'd  bide  heer." 

"Would  you  ?"  said  my  aunt,  with  short  good  nature. 
"Then  I  am  sure  I  will!" 

So  she  drew  her  arm  through  Mr.  Peggotty's,  and  walked 
with  him  to  a  leafy  little  summer-house  there  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  where  she  sat  down  on  a  bench,  and 
I  beside  her.  There  was  a  seat  for  Mr.  Peggotty  too,  but 
he  preferred  to  stand,  leaning  his  hand  on  the  small  rustic 
table.  As  he  stood,  looking  at  his  cap  for  a  little  whiJe  be- 
fore beginning  to  speak,  I  could  not  help  observing  what 
power  and  force  of  character  his  sinewy  hand  expressed, 
and  what  a  good  and  trusty  companion  it  was  to  his  honest 
brow  and  iron  gray  hair. 

"  I  took  my  dear  child  away  last  night,"  Mr.  Peggotty 
began,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  ours,  "  to  my  lodging,  wheer 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  717 

I  have  a  long  time  been  expecting  of  her  and  preparing  for 
her.  It  was  hours  afore  she  knowed  me  right;  and  when 
she  did,  she  kneeled  down  at  my  feet,  and  kiender  said  to 
me,  as  if  it  was  her  prayers,  how  it  all  come  to  be.  You 
may  believe  me,  when  I  heerd  her  voice,  as  I  had  heerd  at 
home  so  playful — and  see  her  humbled,  as  it  might  be  in 
the  dust  our  Saviour  wrote  in  with  his  blessed  hand — I  felt 
a  wownd  go  to  my  art,  in  the  midst  of  all  its  thankfulness.'* 

He  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  face,  without  any  pretense 
of  concealing  why;  and  then  cleared  his  voice. 

"  It  warn't  for  long  as  I  felt  that;  for  she  was  found.  I 
had  on'y  to  think  as  she  was  found,  and  it  was  gone.  I 
doen't  know  why  I  do  so  much  as  mention  of  it  now,  I'm 
sure.  I  didn't  have  it  in  my  mind  a  minute  ago,  to  say  a 
word  about  myself;  but  it  come  up  so  nat'ral,  that  I  yielded 
to  it  afore  I  was  aweer." 

"  You  are  a  self-denying  soul,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  will 
have  your  reward." 

Mr.  Peggotty,  with  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  playing 
athwart  his  face,  made  a  surprised  inclination  of  the  head 
towards  my  aunt,  as  an  acknowledgment  of  her  good 
opinion;  then  took  up  the  thread  he  had  relinquished. 

"  When  my  Em'ly  took  flight,"  he  said,  in  stern  wrath  for 
the  moment,  "  from  the  house  wheer  she  was  made  a 
pris'ner  by  that  theer  spotted  snake  as  Mas'r  Davy  see, — 
and  his  story's  trew,  and  may  God  confound  him  ! — she 
took  flight  in  the  night.  It  was  a  dark  night,  with  a  many 
stars  a  shining.  She  was  wild.  She  ran  along  the  sea 
beach,  believing  the  old  boat  was  theer;  and  calling  out  to 
us  to  turn  away  our  faces,  for  she  was  a  coming  by.  She 
heerd  herself  a  crying  out,  like  as  if  it  was  another  person; 
and  cut  herself  on  them  sharp-pinted  stones  and  rocks,  and 
felt  it  no  more  than  if  she  had  been  rock  herself.  Ever  so  fur 
she  run,  and  there  was  fire  afore  her  eyes,  and  roarings  in 
her  ears.  Of  a  sudden — or  so  she  thowt,  you  understand — 
the  day  broke,  wet  and  windy,  and  she  was  lying  b'low  a 
heap  of  stone  upon  the  shore,  and  a  woman  was  a  speaking 
to  her,  saying,  in  the  language  of  that  country,  what  was  it 
as  had  gone  so  much  amiss  ?" 

He  saw  everything  he  related.  It  passed  before  him  as 
he  spoke,  so  vividly,  that  in  the  intensity  of  his  earnest- 
ness, he  presented  what  he  described,  to  me,  with  greater 
•distinctness  than  I  can  express.    I    can  hardly  believe, 


7i5  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

writing  now  long  afterwards,  but  that  I  was  actually  present 
in  these  scenes;  they  are  impressed  upon  me  with  such  an 
astonishing  air  of  fidelity. 

"As  Em'ly's  eyes — which  was  heavy — see  this  woman 
better,"  Mr.  Peggotty  went  on,  "  she  know'd  as  she  was  one 
of  them  as  she  had  often  talked  to  on  the  beach.  Fur, 
though  she  had  run  (as  I  have  said)  ever  so  fur  in  the  night, 
she  had  oftentimes  wandered  long  ways,  partly  afoot,  partly 
in  boats  and  carriages,  and  know'd  all  that  country,  'long 
the  coast,  miles  and  miles.  She  hadn't  no  children  of  her 
own,  this  woman,  being  a  young  wife;  but  she  was  looking 
to  have  one  afore  long.  And  may  my  prayers  go  up  to 
Heaven  that  'twill  be  a  happ'ness  to  her,  and  a  comfort, 
and  a  honor,  all  her  life!  May  it  love  her  and  be  dootiful 
to  her,  in  her  old  age;  helpful  of  her  at  the  last;  a  Angel  to 
her  heer,  and  heerafter!" 

"Amen  !"  said  my  aunt. 

"  She  had  been  summat  timorous  and  down,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  "  and  had  sat,  at  first,  a  little  way  off,  at  her  spin- 
ning, or  such  work  as  it  was,  when  Em'ly  talked  to  the  chil- 
dren. But  Em'ly  had  took  notice  of  her,  and  had  gone  and 
spoke  to  her;  and  as  the  young  woman  was  partial  to  the 
children  herself,  they  had  soon  made  friends.  Sermuchser, 
that  when  Em'ly  went  that  way,  she  always  giv  Em'ly  flowers. 
This  was  her  as  now  asked  what  it  was  that  had  gone  so 
much  amiss.  Em'ly  told  her,  and  she — took  her  home.  She 
did  indeed.  She  took  her  home,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  cov- 
ering his  face. 

He  was  more  affected  by  this  act  of  kindness,  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him  affected  by  anything  since  the  night  she 
went  away.  My  aunt  and  I  did  not  attempt  to  disturb 
him. 

"  It  was  a  little  cottage,  you  may  suppose,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently, "  but  she  found  space  for  Em'ly  in  it, — her  husband 
was  away  at  sea, — and  she  kep  it  secret,  and  prevailed  upon 
such  neighbors  as  she  had  (they  was  not  many  near)  to  keep 
it  secret  too.  Em'ly  was  took  bad  with  fever,  and,  what  is 
very  strange  to  me  is, — maybe  'tis  not  so  strange  to  schol- 
ars,— the  language  of  that  country  went  out  of  her  head, 
and  she  could  only  speak  her  own,  that  no  one  under- 
stood. She  recollects,  as  if  she  had  dreamed  it,  that  she 
lay  there,  always  a  talking  her  own  tongue,  always  be- 
lieving a§  the  old  boat  was  round  the   next   pint   in  the 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  719 

bay,  and  begging  and  imploring  of  'em  to  send  theer  and 
tell  how  she  was  dying,  and  bring  back  a  message  of 
forgiveness,'  if  it  was  on'y  a  wured.  A'most  the  whole 
time,  she  thowt, — now,  that  him  as  I  made  mention  on  just 
now  was  lurking  for  her  underneath  the  winder:  now  that 
him  as  had  brought  her  to  this  was  in  the  room, — and 
cried  to  the  good  young  woman  not  to  give  her  up,  and 
know'd,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  couldn't  understand,  and 
dreaded  that  she  must  be  took  away.  Likewise  the  fire 
was  afore  her  eyes,  and  the  roarings  in  her  ears;  and 
there  was  no  to-day,  nor  yesterday,  nor  yet  to  morrow; 
but  everything  in  her  life  as  ever  had  been,  or  as  ever 
could  be,  and  everything  as  never  had  been,  and  as  never 
could  be,  was  a  crowding  on  her  all  at  once,  and  nothing 
clear  nor  welcome,  and  yet  she  sang  and  laughed  about 
it!  How  long  this  lasted,  I  doen't  know;  but  then  there 
come  a  sleep;  and  in  that  sleep,  from  being  a  many  times 
stronger  than  her  own  self,  she  fell  into  the  weakness  of  the 
littlest  child." 

Here  he  stopped,  as  if  for  relief  from  the  terrors  of  his  own 
description.  After  being  silent  for  a  few  moments,  he  pur- 
sued his  story. 

''Itwas  a  pleasant  arternoon  when  she  awoke;  and  so 
quiet,  that  there  warn't  a  sound  but  the  rippling  of  that  blue 
sea  without  a  tide,  upon  the  shore.  It  was  her  belief,  at 
first,  that  she  was  at  home  upon  a  Sunday  morning;  but,  the 
vine  leaves  as  she  sees  at  the  winder,  and  the  hills  beyond, 
warn't  home,  and  contradicted  of  her.  Then  come  in  her 
friend  to  watch  alongside  of  her  bed;  and  then  she  know'd  as 
the  old  boat  warn't  round  that  next  pint  in  the  bay  no  more, 
but  was  fur  off;  and  know'd  where  she  was,  and  why,  and 
broke  out  a  crying  on  that  good  young  woman's  bosom, 
wheer  I  hope  her  baby  is  a  lying  now,  a  cheering  of  her 
with  its  pretty  eyes!" 

He  could  not  speak  of  this  good  friend  of  Emily's  with- 
out a  flow  of  tears.  It  was  in  vain  to  try.  He  broke  down 
again,  endeavoring  to  bless  her! 

"  That  done  my  Em'ly  good,"  he  resumed,  after  such 
emotion  as  I  could  not  behold  without  sharing  in,  and  as 
to  my  aunt,  she  wept  with  all  her  heart:  "  that  done  Em'ly 
good,  and  she  begun  to  mend.  But  the  language  of  that 
country  was  quite  gone  from  her,  and  she  was  forced  to 
jnake  signs.    §0  she  went  on,  getting  better  from  day  to 


720  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

day,  slow,  but  sure,  and  trying  to  learn  the  names  of  com- 
mon things — names  as  she  seemed  never  to  have  heerd  in 
all  her  life — till  one  evening  come,  when  she  was  a  setting 
at  her  window,  looking  at  a  little  girl  at  play  upon  the 
beach.  And  of  a  sudden  this  child  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said,  what  would  be  in  English,  *  Fisherman's  daughter, 
here's  a  shell!' — for  you  are  to  understand  that  they  used 
at  first  to  call  her  '  Pretty  lady,'  as  the  general  way  in  that 
country  is,  and  that  she  had  taught  'em  to  call  her  *  Fisher- 
man's daughter,'   instead.     The    child  says  of  a  sudden, 

*  Fisherman's  daughter,  here's  a  shell!'  Then  Em'ly  un- 
derstands her;  and  she  answers,  bursting  out  a  crying;  and 
it  all  comes  back! 

"  When  Em'ly  got  strong  again,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  after 
another  short  interval  of  silence,  "  she  cast  about  to  leave 
that  good  young  creetur,  and  get  to  her  own  country.  The 
husband  was  come  home,  then;  and  the  two  together  put  her 
aboard  a  small  trader  bound  to  Leghorn,  and  from  that  to 
France.  She  had  a  little  money,  but  it  was  less  than  little 
as  they  would  take  for  all  they  done.  I'm  a'most  glad  on  it, 
though  they  was  so  poor  !  What  they  done,  is  laid  up  wheer 
neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  wheer  thieves  do 
not  break  through  nor  steal.  Mas'r  Davy,  it'll  outlast  all 
the  treasure  in  the  wureld. 

**  Em'ly  got  to  France,  and  took  service  to  wait  on  trav- 
eling ladies  at  a  inn  in  the  port.  Theer,  theer  come,  one 
day,  that  snake.  Let  him  never  come  nigh  me.  I  doen't 
know  what  hurt  I  might  do  him ! — Soon  as  she  see 
him,  without  him  seeing  her,  all  her  fear  and  wild- 
ness  returned  upon  her,  and  she  fled  afore  the  very 
breath  he  draw'd.  She  come  to  England,  and  was  set 
ashore  at  Dover. 

"  I  doen't  know,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  for  sure,  when  her 
art  begun  to  fail  her;  but  all  the  way  to  England  she  had 
thowt  to  come  to  her  dear  home.  Soon  as  she  got  to  Eng- 
land she  turned  her  face  tow'rds  it.  But  fear  of  not  being 
forgiv,  fear  of  being  pinted  at,  fear  of  some  of  us  being  dead 
along  of  her,  fear  of  many  things,  turned  her  from  it,  kiender 
by  force,  upon  the  road:  '  Uncle,  uncle,'  she  says   to  me, 

*  the  fear  of  not  being  worthy  to  do,  what  my  torn  and 
bleeding  breast  so  longed  to  do,  was  the  most  fright'ning 
fear  of  all!  I  turned  back,  when  my  art  was  full  of  prayers 
that  I  might  crawl  to  the  old  doorstep,  in  the  night,  kiss  it. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  721 

lay  my  wicked  face  upon  it,  and  theer  be  found  dead  in  the 
morning.' 

"  She  come,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  dropping  his  voice  to  an 
awe-stricken  whisper,  "  to  London.  She — as  had  never  seen 
it  in  her  Hfe — alone — without  a  penny — young — so  pretty — 
come  to  London.  A'most  the  moment  as  she  hghted  heer, 
all  so  desolate,  she  found  (as  she  believed)  a  friend;  a  decent 
woman  as  spoke  to  her  about  the  needle-work  as  she  had 
been  brought  up  to  do,  about  finding  plenty  of  it  fur  her, 
about  a  lodging  for  the  night,  and  making  secret  inquiration 
concerning  of  me  and  all  at  home,  to-morrow.  When  my 
child,"  he  said  aloud,  and  with  an  energy  of  gratitude  that 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  "  stood  upon  the  brink  of 
more  than  I  can  say  or  think  on — Martha,  trew  to  her  prom- 
ise, saved  her!" 

I  could  not  repress  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  Mas'r  Davy  !"  he  said,  griping  my  hand  in  that  strong 
hand  of  his,  "  it  was  you  as  first  made  mention  of  her  to  me. 
I  thankee,  sir  !  She  was  arnest.  She  had  know'd  of  her 
bitter  knowledge  wheer  to  watch  and  what  to  do.  She  had 
done  it.  And  the  Lord  was  above  all !  She  come,  white  and 
hurried,  upon  Em'ly  in  her  sleep.  She  says  to  her,  '  Rise 
up  from  worse  than  death,  and  come  with  me  !'  Them  be- 
longing to  the  house  would  have  stopped  her,  but  they  might 
as  soon  have  stopped  the  sea.  *  Stand  away  from  me,*  she 
says,  '  I  am  a  ghost  that  calls  her  from  beside  her  open  grave  V 
She  told  Em'ly  she  had  seen  me,  and  know'd  I  loved  her, 
and  forgiv  her.  She  wrapped  her,  hasty,  in  her  clothes. 
She  took  her,  faint  and  trembling  on  her  arm.  She  heeded  no 
more  what  they  said,  than  if  she  had  had  no  ears.  She  walked 
among  *em  with  my  child,  minding  only  her;  and  brought 
her  safe  out,  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  from  that  black  pit  of 
ruin  ! 

*'  She  attended  on  Em'ly,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had 
released  my  hand,  and  put  his  own  hand  on  his  heaving 
chest;  "she  attended  to  my  Em'ly,  lying  wearied  out,  and 
wandering  betwixt  whiles,  till  late  next  day.  Then  she  went 
in  search  of  me,  then  in  search  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy.  She 
didn't  tell  Em'ly  what  she  come  out  fur,  lest  her  art  should 
fail,  and  she  should  think  of  hiding  of  herself.  How  the 
cruel  lady  know'd  of  her  being  theer,  I  can't  say.  Whether 
him  as  I  have  spoke  so  much  of,  chanced  to  see  *em  going 
theer*  or  whether  (which  is  laqst  Uk^,  to  my  ^]bLijj.;kui]^)  he 


722  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

2iad  heerd  it  from  the  woman,  I  doen't  greatly  ask  myself. 
My  niece  is  found. 

"All  night  long,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "we  have  been  to- 
gether, Em'ly  and  me.  'Tis  little  (considering  the  time)  as 
she  has  said,  in  wureds,  through  them  broken-hearted  tears; 
'tis  less  as  I  have  seen  of  her  dear  face,  as  grow'd  into  a 
woman's  at  my  hearth.  But  all  night  long,  her  arms  has 
been  about  my  neck;  and  her  head  has  laid  heer;  and  we 
knows  full  well,  as  we  can  put  our  trust  in  one  another,  ever 
more." 

He  ceased  to  speak,  and  his  hand  upon  the  table  rested 
there  in  perfect  repose,  with  a  resolution  in  it  that  might 
have  conquered  lions. 

"  It  was  a  gleam  of  light  upon  me,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt, 
drying  her  eyes,  "  when  I  formed  the  resolution  of  being 
godmother  to  your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood,  who  disappointed 
me;  but,  next  to  that,  hardly  anything  would  have  given  me 
greater  pleasure,  than  to  be  godmother  to  that  good  young 
creature's  baby  !" 

Mr.  Peggotty  nodded  his  understanding  of  my  aunt's  feel- 
ings, but  could  not  trust  himself  with  any  verbal  reference  to 
the  subject  of  her  commendation.  We  all  remained  silent,  and 
occupied  with  our  own  reflections  (my  aunt  drying  her  eyes, 
and  now  sobbing  convulsively,  and  now  laughing  and  call- 
ing herself  a  fool);  until  I  spoke.  "You  have  quite  made 
up  your  mind,"  said  I  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  as  to  the  future, 
good  friend?     I  need  scarcely  ask  you." 

"  Quite,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned;  "  and  told  Em'ly. 
Theer's  mighty  countries,  fur  from  heer.  Our  future  life 
lays  over  the  sea." 

"  They  will  emigrate  together,  aunt,"  said  I. 

"Yes!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  hopeful  smile.  "No 
one  can't  reproach  my  darling  in  Australia.  We  will  begin 
a  new  life  over  theerl" 

I  asked  him  if  he  yet  proposed  to  himself  any  time  for 
going  away. 

"I  was  down  at  the  Docks  early  this  morning,  sir,"  he 
returned,  "  to  get  information  concerning  of  them  ships.  In 
about  six  weeks  or  two  months  from  now,  there'll  be  one 
sailing — I  see  her  this  morning — went  aboard — and  we  shall 
take  our  passage  in  her." 

"  Quite  alone?"  I  asked. 

**Ay,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned.     **My  sister,  you  see, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  723 

she's  that  fond  of  you  and  yourn,  and  that  accustomed  to 
think  on'y  of  her  own  country,  that  it  wouldn't  be  hardly 
fair  to  let  her  go.  Besides  which,  theer's  one  ghe  has  in 
charge,  Mas'r  Davy,  as  doen't  ought  to  be  forgot." 

"Poor  Ham!"  said  I. 

"  My  good  sister  takes  care  of  his  house,  you  see,  ma'am, 
and  he  takes  kindly  to  her,"  Mr.  Peggotty  explained  for  my 
aunt's  better  information.  "  He'll  set  and  talk  to  her,  with  a 
calm  spirit,  wen  it's  like  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  open 
his  lips  to  another.  Poor  fellow!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  shak- 
ing his  head,  "  theer's  not  so  much  left  him,  that  he  could 
spare  the  little  as  he  has!"  , 

"  And  Mrs.  Gummidge?"  said  I. 

**  Well,  I've  had  a  mort  of  con-sideration,  I  do  tell  you," 
returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  perplexed  look  which  gradu- 
ally cleared  as  he  went  on,  ''concerning  of  Missis  Gum- 
midge. You  see,  wen  Missis  Gummidge  falls  to  thinking  of 
the  old  'un,  she  ain't  what  you  may  call  good  company.  Be 
twixt  you  and  me,  Mas'r  Davy — and  you,  ma'am — wen  Mrs. 
Gummidge  takes  to  wimmicking," — our  old  county  word  for 
crying — "  she's  liable  to  be  considered  to  be,  by  them  as 
didn't  know  the  old  'un,  peevish-like.  Now  I  did  know  the 
old  'un,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  and  I  know'd  his  merits,  so  I 
unnerstan'  her;  but  'tan't  entirely  so,  you  see,  with  others — 
nat'rally  can't  be." 

My  aunt  and  I  both  acquiesced. 

"Wheerby,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "my  sister  might — I. 
doen't  say  she  would,  but  might — find  Missis  Gummidge 
give  her  a  leetle  trouble  now-and-again.  Theerfur  'tan't 
my  intentions  to  moor  Missis  Gummidge  'long  with  them, 
but  to  find  a  Beein'  for  her  wheer  she  can  fisherate  fur  her- 
self." (A  Beein'  signifies,  in  that  dialect,  a  home,  and  to 
fisherate  is  to  provide.)  *'  Fur  which  purpose,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  "  I  means  to  make  her  a  'lowance  afore  I  go,  as  'U 
leave  her  pretty  comfort'ble.  She's  the  faithfullest  o'  cree- 
turs.  'Tan't  to  be  expected,  of  course,  at  her  time  of  life, 
and  being  lone  and  lorn,  as  the  good  old  Mawther  is  to  be 
knocked  about  aboard-ship,  and  in  the  woods  and  wilds  of 
a  new  and  furaway  country.  So  that's  what  I'm  agoing  to 
do  with  her.'' 

He  forgot  nobody.  He  thought  of  everybody's  claims 
and  strivings  but  his  own. 

**  Em'ly,"  he  continued,-  "  will  keep  along  with  me — poor 


724  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

child,  she's  sore  in  need  of  peace  and  rest ! — until  such  tinw 
as  we  goes  upon  our  voyage.  She'll  work  at  them  clothes, 
as  must  be  made;  and  I  hope  her  troubles  will  begin  to 
seem  longer  ago  than  they  was,  wen  she  finds  herself  once 
more  by  her  rough  but  loving  uncle." 

My  aunt  nodded  confirmation  of  this  i  e,  and  imparted 
great  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

''  Theer's  one  thing  furder,  Mas'r  Davy/'  said  he,  putting 
his  hand  in  his  breast-pocket,  and  gravely  taking  out  the 
little  paper  bundle  I  had  seen  before,  which  he  unrolled  on 
the  table.  "  Theer's  these  here  bank-notes — fifty  pound, 
and  ten.  To  them  I  wish  to  add  the  money  as  she  come 
away  with.  I've  asked  her  about  that  (but  not  saying  why), 
and  have  added  of  it  up.  I  ain't  a  scholar.  Would  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  see  how  'tis  ?" 

He  handed  me,  apologetically  for  his  scholarship,  a  piece 
of  paper,  and  observed  me  while  I  looked  it  over.  It  was 
quite  right. 

"  Thankee,  sir,"  he  said,  taking  it  back.  "  This  money, 
if  you  doen't  see  objections,  Mas'r  Davy,  I  shall  put  up  jest 
afore  I  go,  in  a  cover  d'rected  to  him;  and  put  that  up  in 
another,  d'rected  to  his  mother.  I  shall  tell  her,  in  no  more 
wureds  than  I  speak  to  you,  what  it's  the  price  on;  and  that 
I'm  gone,  and  past  receiving  of  it  back." 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  it  would  be  right  to  do  so — 
that  I  was  thoroughly  convinced  it  would  be,  since  he  felt 
it  to  be  right. 

"  I  said  that  theer  was  on'y  one  thing  furder,"  he  pro- 
ceeded with  a  grave  smile,  when  he  had  made  up  his  little 
bundle  again,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket;  "but  theer  was  two. 
I  warn't  sure  in  my  mind,  wen  I  come  out  this  morning,  as 
I  could  go  and  break  to  Ham,  of  my  own  self,  what  had  so 
thankfully  happened.  So  I  writ  a  letter  while  I  was  out, 
and  put  it  in  the  post-office,  telling  of  'em  how  all  was  as 
'tis;  and  that  I  should  come  down  to-morrow  to  unload  my 
mind  of  what  little  needs  a  doing  of  down  theer,  and,  most- 
like, take  my  farewell  leave  of  Yarmouth." 

"  And  do  you  wish  me  to  go  with  you  ?"  said  I,  seeing 
that  he  left  something  unsaid. 

"  If  you  could  do  me  that  kind  favor,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  re- 
plied, "  I  know  the  sight  on  you  would  cheer  'em  up  a  bit." 

My  little  Dora  being  in  good  spirits,  and  very  desirous 
that  I  should  go — as  I  found  on  talking  it  over  with  her — I 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  725 

readily  pledged  myself  to  accompany  him  in  accordance 
with  his  wish.  Next  morning,  consequently,  we  were  on 
tlie  Yarmouth  coach,  and  again  traveling  over  the  old 
ground. 

As  we  passed  along  the  familiar  street  at  night — Mr.  Peg- 
gotty,  in  despite  of  all  my  remonstrances,  carrying  my  bag 
—  1  glanced  into  Omer  and  Joram's  shop,  and  saw  my  old 
friend  Mr.  Omer  there,  smoking  his  pipe.  I  felt  reluctant 
to  be  present,  when  Mr.  Peggotty  first  met  his  sister  and 
Ham;  and  made  Mr.  Omer  my  excuse  for  lingering  behind. 

"How  is  Mr.  Omer,  after  this  longtime  ?"  said  I,  going  in. 

He  fanned  away  the  smoke  of  his  pipe,  that  he  might  get 
a  better  view  of  me,  and  soon  recognized  me  with  great 
delight. 

"  I  should  get  up,  sir,  to  acknowledge  such  an  honor  as 
this  visit,"  said  he,  "only  my  limbs  are  rather  out  of  sorts, 
and  I  am  wheeled  about.  With  the  exception  of  my  limbs 
and  my  breath,  hows'ever,  I  am  as  hearty  as  a  man  can  be, 
I'm  thankful  to  say." 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  contented  looks  and  his  good 
spirits,  and  saw,  now,  that  his  easy  chair  went  on  wheels. 

"  It's  an  ingenious  thing,  ain't  it  ?"  he  inquired,  following 
the  direction  of  my  glance,  and  polishing  the  elbow  with  his 
arm.  "  It  runs  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  tracks  as  true  as  a 
mail-coach.  Bless  you,  my  little  Minnie — my  granddaugh- 
ter you  know,  Minnie's  child, — puts  her  little  strength 
against  the  back,  gives  it  a  shove,  and  away  we  go,  as  clever 
and  merry  as  ever  you  see  anything!  And  I  tell  you  what 
— it's  a  most  uncommon  chair  to  smoke  a  pipe  in!" 

I  never  saw  such  a  good  old  fellow  to  make  the  best  of  a 
thing,  and  find  out  the  enjoyment  of  it,  as  Mr.  Omer.  He 
was  as  radiant  as  if  his  chair,  his  asthma,  and  the  failure  of 
his  limbs,  were  the  various  branches  of  a  great  invention 
for  enhancing  the  luxury  of  a  pipe. 

"  I  see  more  of  the  world,  I  can  assure  you,"  said  Mr. 
Omer,  "  in  this  chair,  than  ever  1  see  out  of  it.  You'd  be 
surprised  at  the  number  of  people  tjiat  looks  in  of  a  day  to 
have  a  chat!  You  really  would!  There's  twice  as  much  in 
the  newspaper,  since  I've  taken  to  this  chair,  as  there  used 
to  be.  As  to  general  reading,  dear  me,  what  a  lot  of  it  I  do 
get  through!  That's  what  I  feel  so  strong,  you  know!  If  it 
had  been  my  eyes,  what  should  I  have  done  ?  If  it  had  been 
my  ears,  what  should  I  have  done  ?      Being  my  limbs,  what 


726  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

does  it  signify  ?  Why,  my  limbs  only  made  my  'breath 
shorter  when  I  used  'em.  And  now,  if  I  want  to  go  out 
into  the  street  or  down  to  the  sands,  I've  only  to  call  Dick, 
Joram's  youngest  'prentice,  and  away  I  go  in  my  own  car- 
riage, like  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

He  half  suffocated  himself  with  laughing  here. 

"Lord  bless  you!"  said  Mr.  Omer,  resuming  his  pipe,  "  a 
man  must  take  the  fat  with  the  lean;  that's  what  he  must 
make  up  his  mind  to,  in  this  life.  Joram  does  a  fine  busi- 
ness.    Ex-cellent  business!" 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  I. 

"I  knew  you  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "And  Joram 
and  Minnie  are  like  valentines.  What  more  can  a  man  ex- 
pect ?     What's  his  limbs  to  that  f* 

His  supreme  contempt  for  his  own  limbs,  as  he  sat  smok- 
ing, was  one  of  the  pleasantest  oddities  I  have  ever  en- 
countered. 

"  And  since  I've  took  to  general  reading,  you've  took  to 
general  writing,  eh,  sir  ?"  said  Mr.  Omer,  surveying  me  admir- 
ingly. "  What  a  lovely  work  that  was  of  yours!  What  ex- 
pressions in  it  ?  I  read  it  every  word — every  word.  And  as 
to  feeling  sleepy!     Not  at  all." 

I  laughingly  expressed  my  satisfaction,  but  I  must  confess 
that  I  thought  this  association  of   ideas  significant. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  and  honor,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer, 
"  that  when  I  lay  that  book  upon  the  table,  and  look  at  it 
outside;  compact  in  three  separate  and  indiwidual  woUumes 
— one,  two,  three;  I  am  as  proud  as  Punch  to  think  that  I 
once  had  the  honor  of  being  connected  with  your  family. 
And  dear  me,  it's  a  long  time  ago,  now,  an't  it  ?  Over  at 
Blunderstone.  With  a  pretty  little  party  laid  along  with  the 
other  party.  And  you  quite  a  small  party  then,  yourself. 
Dear,  dear  !" 

I  changed  the  subject  by  referring  to  Emily.  After 
assuring  him  that  I  did  not  forget  how  interested  he  had 
always  been  in  her,  and  how  kindly  he  had  always  treated 
her,  I  gave  him  a  general  account  of  her  restoration  to  her 
uncle  by  the  aid  of  Martha;  which  I  knew  would  please  the 
old  man.  He  listened  with  the  utmost  attention,  and  said, 
feelingly,  when  I  had  done: 

"  I  am  rejoiced  at  it,  sir!  It's  the  best  news  I  have  heard 
for  many  a  day.  Dear,  dear,  dear!  And  what's  going  to  be 
undertook  for  that  unfortunate  young  woman,  Martha,  now  ?" 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  727 

*  You  touch  a  point  that  my  thoughts  have  been  dwelling 
on  since  yesterday,"  said  I,  "but  on  which  I  can  give  you 
no  information  yet,  Mr.  Omer.  Mr.  Peggotty  has  not 
alluded  to  it,  and  I  have  a  delicacy  in  doing  so.  I  am  sure 
he  has  not  forgotten  it.  He  forgets  nothing  that  is  disinter- 
ested and  good." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  himself  up 
where  he  had  left  off,  "whatever  is  done,  I  should  wish  to 
be  a  member  of.  Put  me  down  for  anything  you  may  con- 
sider right,  and  let  me  know.  I  never  could  think  the  girl 
all  bad,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  she's  not.  So  will  my  daugh- 
ter Minnie  be.  Young  women  are  contradictory  creatures 
in  some  things — her  mother  was  just  the  same  as  her — but 
their  hearts  are  soft  and  kind.  It's  all  show  with  Minnie, 
about  Martha.  Why  she  should  consider  it  necessary  to 
make  any  show,  I  don't  undertake  to  tell  you.  But  it's  all 
show,  bless  you.  She'd  do  her  any  kindness  in  private.  So 
put  me  down  for  whatever  you  may  consider  right,  will  you 
be  so  good  .''  and  drop  me  a  line  where  to  forward  it.  Dear 
me!"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "when  a  man  is  drawing  on  to  a  time 
of  life,  where  the  two  ends  of  life  meet;  when  he  finds  him- 
self, however  hearty  he  is,  being  wheeled  about  for  the 
second  time,  in  a  speeches  of  go-cart;  he  should  be  over- 
rejoiced  to  do  a  kindness  if  he  can.  He  wants  plenty.  And 
I  don't  speak  of  myself,  particular,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "because, 
sir,  the  way  I  look  at  it  is,  that  we  are  all  drawing  on  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  whatever  age  we  are,  on  account  of  time 
never  standing  still  for  a  single  moment.  So  let  us  always 
do  a  kindness,  and  be  over-rejoiced.     To  be  sure!" 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  put  it  on  a 
ledge  in  the  back  of  his  chair,  expressly  made  for  its  recep- 
tion. 

"  There's  Em'ly's  cousin,  him  that  she  was  to  have  been 
married  to,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  rubbing  his  hands  feebly,  "as 
fine  a  fellow  as  there  is  in  Yarmouth  !  He'll  come  and  talk 
or  read  to  me,  in  the  evening,  for  an  hour  together  some- 
times. That's  a  kindness,  I  should  call  it !  All  his  life's  a 
kindness." 

*'  I  am  going  to  see  him  now,"  said  I. 

"  Are  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Tell  him  I  was  hearty, 
and  sent  my  respects.  Minnie  and  Joram's  at  a  ball.  They 
would  be  as  proud  to  see  you  as  I  am,  if  they  was  at  home. 
Minnie  won't  hardly  go  out  at  all,  you  see,  *on   account  of 


728  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

father,*  as  she  says.  So  I  swore  to-night,  that  if  she  didn't 
go,  I'd  go  to  bed  at  six.  In  consequence  of  which,"  Mr. 
Omer  shook  himself  and  his  chair,  with  laughter  at  the  suc- 
cess of  his  device,  "  she  and  Joram's  at  a  ball." 

I  shook  hands  with  him,  and  wished  him  good-night. 

"  Half  a  minute,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  If  you  was  to  go 
without  seeing  my  little  elephant,  you'd  lose  the  best  of 
sights.     You  never  see  such  a  sight  !     Minnie  !" 

A  musical  little  voice  answered,  from  somewhere  up- 
stairs, "I  am  coming,  grandfather!"  and  a  pretty  little 
girl  with  long,  flaxen,  curling  hair,  soon  came  running  into 
the  shop. 

'*  This  is  my  little  elephant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  fond- 
ling the  child.     "  Siamese  breed,  sir.     Now,  little  elephant!  " 

The  Kttle  elephant  set  the  door  of  the  parlor  open,  ena- 
bling me  to  see  that,  in  these  latter  days,  it  was  converted  into 
a  bedroom  for  Mr.  Omer,  who  could  not  be  easily  conveyed 
up  stairs;  and  then  hid  her  pretty  forehead,  and  tumbled  her 
long  hair,  against  the  back  of  Mr.  Omer's  chair. 

"  The  elephant  butts,  you  know,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer, 
winking,  *'  when  he  goes  at  an  object.  Once,  elephant. 
Twice.     Three  times  !" 

At  this  signal,  the  little  elephant,  with  a  dexterity  that  was 
next  to  marvelous  in  so  small  an  animal,  whisked  the  chair 
round  with  Mr.  Omer  in  it,  and  rattled  it  off,  pell-mell,  into 
the  parlor,  without  touching  the  door-post:  Mr.  Omer  in- 
describably enjoyed  the  performance,  and  looked  back  at 
me  on  the  road  as  if  it  were  the  triumphant  issue  of  his  life's 
exertions. 

After  a  stroll  about  the  town,  I  went  to  Ham's  house. 
Peggotty  had  now  removed  here  for  good;  and  had  let  her 
own  house  to  the  successor  of  Mr.  Barkis  in  the  carrying 
business,  who  had  paid  her  very  well  for  the  good-will,  cart, 
and  horse.  I  believe  the  very  same  slow  horse  that  Mr. 
Barkis  drove,  was  still  at  work. 

I  found  them  in  the  neat  kitchen,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  who  had  been  fetched  from  the  old  boat  by  Mr. 
Peggotty  himself.  I  doubt  if  she  could  have  been  induced 
to  desert  her  post  by  any  one  else.  He  had  evidently  told 
them  all.  Both  Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  their 
aprons  to  their  eyes,  and  Ham  had  just  stepped  out  "  to  take 
a  turn  on  the  beach."  He  presently  came  home,  very  glad 
to  see  me;  and  I  hope  they  were  all  the  better  for  my  being 


.  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  729 

there.  We  spoke,  with  some  approach  to  cheerfulness,  of 
Mr.  Peggotty's  growing  rich  in  a  new  country,  and  of  the 
wonders  he  would  describe  in  his  letters.  We  said  nothing 
of  Emily  by  name,  but  distantly  referred  to  her  more  than 
once.     Ham  was  the  serenest  of  the  party. 

But,  Peggotty  told  me,  when  she  lighted  me  to  a  little 
"chamber  where  the  Crocodile  book  was  lying  ready  for  me 
on  the  table,  that  he  always  was  the  same.  She  believed 
(she  told  me,  crying)  that  he  was  broken-hearted;  though  he 
was  as  full  of  courage  as  of  sweetness,  and  worked  harder 
and  better  than  any  boat-builder  in  any  yard  in  all  that 
part.  There  were  times,  she  said,  of  an  evening,  when  he 
talked  of  their  old  life  in  the  boat-house;  and  then  he 
mentioned  Emily  as  a  child.  But  he  never  mentioned  her 
as  a  woman. 

I  thought  I  had  read  in  his  face  that  he  would  like  to 
speak  to  me  alone.  I  therefore  resolved  to  put  myself  in 
his  way  next  evening,  as  he  came  home  from  his  work. 
Plaving  settled  this  with  myself,  I  fell  asleep.  That  night, 
for  the  first  time  in  all  those  many  nights,  the  candle  was 
taken  out  of  the  window,  Mr.  Peggotty  swung  in  his  old 
hammock  in  the  old  boat,  and  the  wind  murmured  with  the 
old  sound  round  his  head. 

All  next  day,  he  was  occupied  in  disposing  of  his  fishing- 
boat  and  tackle;  in  packing  up,  and  sending  to  London  by 
wagon,  such  of  his  little  domestic  possessions  as  he  thought 
would  be  useful  to  him;  and  in  parting  with  the  rest,  or  be- 
stowing them  on  Mrs.  Gummidge.  She  was  with  him  all 
day.  As  I  had  a  sorrowful  wish  to  see  the  old  place  once 
more  before  it  was  locked  up,  I  engaged  to  meet  them  there 
in  the  evening.  But  I  so  arranged  it  that  I  should  meet 
Ham  first. 

It  was  easy  to  come  in  his  way,  as  I  knew  where  he 
worked.  I  met  him  at  a  retired  part  of  the  sand,  which  I 
knew  he  would  cross,  and  turned  back  with  him,  that  he 
might  have  leisure  to  speak  to  me  if  he  really  wished.  I 
had  not  mistaken  the  expression  of  his  face.  We  had  walked 
but  a  little  way  together,  when  he  said,  without  looking  at 
me  : 

"  Mas'r  Davy,  have  you  seen  her  ?" 

"  Only  for  a  moment,  when  she  was  in  a  swoon,"  I  softly 
answered. 

We  walked  a  little  farther,  and  he  said : 


730 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


**  Mas'r  Davy,  shall  you  see  her,-  d'ye  think  ?" 

"  It  would  be  too  painful  to  her,  perhaps,"  said  I. 

"  I  have  thowt  of  that,"  he  replied.  "  So  'twould,  sir,  so 
'twould." 

"  But,  Ham,"  said  I,  gently,  "  if  there  is  anything  that  I 
could  write  to  her,  for  you,  in  case  I  could  not  tell  it;  if 
there  is  anything  you  would  wish  to  make  known  to  her 
through  me,  1  should  consider  it  a  sacred  trust." 

"  I  am  sure  on't.  I  thankee,  sir,  most  kind  !  I  think 
theer  is  something  I  could  wish  said  or  wrote." 

"What  is  it?"  ^ 

We  walked  a  little  farther  in  silence,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"  'Tan't  that  I  forgive  her.  'Tan't  that  so  much.  'Tis 
more  as  I  beg  of  her  to  forgive  me,  for  having  pressed  my 
affections  upon  her.  Odd  times,  I  think  that  if  I  hadn't 
had  her  promise  fur  to  marry  me,  sir,  she  was  that  trustful 
of  me,  in  a  friendly  way,  that  she'd  have  told  me  what  was 
struggling  in  her  mind,  and  would  have  counseled  with  me, 
and  I  might  have  saved  her." 

I  pressed  his  hand.     "  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Theer's  yet  something  else,"  he  returned,  "  if  I  can  say 
it,  Mas'r  Davy." 

We  walked  on,  further  than  we  had  walked  yet,  before  he 
spoke  again.  He  was  not  crying  when  he  made  the  pauses 
I  shall  express  by  lines.  He  was  merely  collecting  himself 
to  speak  very  plainly. 

"  I  loved  her — and  I  love  the  mem'ry  of  her — too  deep — 
to  be  able  to  lead  her  to  believe  of  my  own  self  as  I'm  a 
happy  man.  I  could  only  be  happy — by  forgetting  of  her — 
and  I'm  afeerd  I  couldn't  hardly  bear  as  she  should  be  told 
I  done  that.  But  if  you,  being  so  full  of  learning,  Mas'r  Davy, 
could  think  of  anything  to  say  as  might  bring  her  to  believe 
I  wasn't  greatly  hurt:  still  loving  of  her,  and  mourning  for 
her:  anything  as  might  bring  her  to  believe  as  I  was  not 
tired  of  my  life,  and  yet  was  hoping  fur  to  see  her  without 
blame,  wheer  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest — anything  as  would  ease  her  sorrowful  mind,  and 
yet  not  make  her  think  as  I  could  ever  marry,  or  as  'twas 
possible  that  any  one  could  ever  be  to  me  what  she  was — I 
should  ask  of  you  to  say  that — with  my  prayers  for  her — 
that  was  so  dear." 

I  pressed  his  manly  hand  again,  and  told  him  I  would 
charge  myself  to  do  this  as  well  as  J  could. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  731 

"  I  thankee,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  *Twas  kind  of  you  to 
meet  me.  'Twas  kind  of  you  to  bear  him  company  down. 
Mas'r  Davy,  I  unnerstan'  very  well,  though  my  aunt  will 
come  to  Lon'on  afore  they  sail,  and  they'll  unite  once  more, 
that  I'm  not  like  to  see  him  agen.  I  fare  to  feel  sure  on't. 
We  doen't  say  so,  but  so  'twill  be,  and  better  so.  The  last 
you  see  on  him — the  very  last — will  you  give  him  the  loving- 
est  duty  and  thanks  of  the  orphan,  as  he  was  evermoie  than 
a  father  to  ?" 

This  I  also  promised,  faithfully. 

"  I  thankee  again,  sir,"  he  said,  heartily  shaking  hands. 
"  I  know  wheer  you're  a  going.     Good  by  !" 

With  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  as  though  to  explain  to  me 
that  he  could  not  enter  the  old  place,  he  turned  away.  As 
I  looked  after  his  figure,  crossing  the  waste  in  the  moonlight, 
I  saw  him  turn  his  face  towards  a  strip  of  silvery  light  upon 
the  sea,  and  pass  on  looking  at  it,  until  he  was  a  shadow  in 
the  distance. 

The  door  of  the  boat  house  stood  open  when  I  approached; 
and,  on  entering,  I  found  it  emptied  of  all  its  furniture,  sav- 
ing one  of  the  old  lockers,  on  which  Mrs.  Gummidge,  with 
a  basket  on  her  knee,  was  seated,  looking  at  Mr.  Peggotty. 
He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  rough  chimney-piece,  and  gazed 
upon  a  few  expiring  embers  in  the  giate;  but  he  raised  his 
head,  hopefully,  on  my  coming  in,  and  spoke  in  a  cheery 
manner. 

"  Come,  according  to  promise,  to  bid  farewell  to't,  eh, 
Mas'r  Davy!"  he  said,  taking  up  the  candle.  **  Bare  enough 
now,  an't  it?" 

"  Indeed  you  have  made  good  use  of  the  time,"  said  I. 

"  Why  we  have  not  been  idle,  sir.  Missis  Gummidge  has 
worked  like  a — I  doen't  know  what  Missis  Gummidge  ain't 
worked  like,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  her,  at  a  loss 
for  a  sufficiently-approving  simile. 

Mrs.  Gummidge,  leaning  on  her  basket,  made  no  observa- 
tion. 

"  Theer's  the  very  locker  that  you  used  to  sit  on,  'long 
with  Em'ly!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a  whisper.  "  I'm  ago- 
ing to  carry  it  away  with  me,  last  of  all.  And  heer's  your 
old  little  bedroom,  see,  Mas'r  Davy!  A'most  as  bleak  to- 
night, as  art  could  wish!" 

In  truth,  the  wind,  though  it  was  low,  had  a  solemn  sound, 
and  crept  around  the  deserted  house  with  a  whispered  wail- 


732  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ing  that  was  very  mournful.  Everything  was  gone,  down 
to  the  little  mirror  with  the  oyster-shell  frame.  I  thought 
of  myself,  lying  here,  when  that  first  great  change  was  being 
wrought  at  home.  I  thought  of  that  blue-eyed  child  who 
had  enchanted  me.  I  thought  of  Steerforth;  and  a  foolish, 
fearful  fancy  came  upon  me  of  his  being  near  at  hand,  and 
liable  to  be  met  at  any  turn. 

*'  'Tis  like  to  be  long,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  afore  the  boat  finds  new  tenants.  They  look  upon't,  down 
here,  as  being  unfort'nate  now!" 

"  Does  it  belong  to  anybody  in  the  neighborhood?"  I 
asked. 

"  To  a  mast-maker  up  town,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  I'm 
agoing  to  give  the  key  to  him  to-night." 

We  looked  into  the  other  little  room,  and  came  back  to 
Mrs.  Gummidge,  sitting  on  the  locker,  whom  Mr.  Peggotty, 
putting  the  light  on  the  chimney-piece,  requested  to  rise, 
that  he  might  carry  it  outside  the  door  before  extinguish- 
ing the  candle. 

"  Dan'l,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  suddenly  deserting  her 
basket,  and  clinging  to  his  arm,  ''  my  dear  Dan'l,  the  part- 
ing words  I  speak  in  this  house  is,  I  mustn't  be  left  behind. 
Doen't  ye  think  of  leaving  me  behind,  Dan'l!  Oh,  doen't 
ye  ever  do  it!" 

Mr.  Peggotty,  taken  aback,  looked  from  Mrs.  Gummidge 
to  me,  and  from  me  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  as  if  he  had  been 
awakened  from  a  sleep. 

"  Doen't  ye,  dearest  Dan'l,  doen't  ye!"  cried  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge, fervently.  *'  Take  me  'long  with  you,  Dan'l,  take 
me  'long  with  you  and  Em'ly!  I'll  be  your  servant,  constant 
and  trew.  If  there's  slaves  in  them  parts  where  you're 
agoing,  I'll  be  bound  to  you  for  one,  and  happy,  but  doen't 
ye  leave  me  behind,  Dan'l,  that's  a  deary  dear!" 

"  My  good  soul,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  shaking  his  head, 
"  you  doen't  know  what  a  long  voyage,  and  what  a  hard 
life  'tis!" 

"Yes  I  do,  Dan'l!  I  can  guess!"  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
*'  But  my  parting  words  under  this  roof  is,  I  shall  go  into 
the  house  and  die,  if  I'm  not  took.  I  can  dig,  Dan'l.  I 
can  work.  I  can  live  hard.  I  can  be  loving  and  patient 
now — more  than  you  think,  Dan'l,  if  you'll  on'y  try  me.  I 
wouldn't  touch  the  'lowance,  not  if  I  was  dying  of  want, 
Dan'l  Peggotty;  but  I'll  go  with  you  and  Em'ly,  if  you'll 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  733 

on'y  let  me,  to  the  world's  end!  I  know  how  tis;  I  know 
you  think  that  I  am  lone  and  lorn;  but,  deary  love,  'tan't  so 
no  more!  I  an't  sat  here,  so  long,  a  watching,  and  a  think- 
ing of  your  trials,  without  some  good  being  done  me.  Mas'r 
Davy,  speak  to  him  forme!  I  knows  his  ways,  and  Em'ly's, 
and  I  knows  their  sorrows,  and  can  be  a  comfort  to  'em, 
some  odd  times,  and  labor  for  'em  alius!  Dan'l,  deary 
Danl,  let  me  go  'long  with  you!" 

And  Mrs.  Gummidge  took  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  with 
a  homely  pathos  and  affection,  in  a  homely  rapture  of  de- 
votion and  gratitude,  that  he  well  deserved. 

We  brought  the  locker  out,  extinguished  the  candle, 
fastened  the  door  on  the  outside,  and  left  the  old  boat  close 
shut  up,  a  dark  speck  in  the  cloudy  night.  Next  day,  when 
we  were  returning  to  London  outside  the  coach,  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge and  her  basket  were  on  the  seat  behind,  and  Mrs. 
Gummidge  was  happy. 

CHAPTER  LII. 

I    ASSIST    AT    AN    EXPLOSION. 

When  the  time  Mr.  Micawber  had  appointed  so  mysteri- 
ously, was  within  four-and-twenty  hours  of  being  come,  my 
aunt  and  I  consulted  how  we  should  proceed;  for  my  aunt 
was  very  unwilling  to  leave  Dora.  Ah!  how  easily  I  carried 
Dora  up  and  down  stairs,  now! 

We  were  disposed,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Micawber's  stipu- 
lation for  my  aunt's  attendance,  to  arrange  that  she  should 
stay  at  home,  and  be  represented  by  Mr.  Dick  and  me.  In 
short,  we  had  resolved  to  take  this  course,  when  Dora  again 
unsettled  us  by  declaring  that  she  never  would  forgive  her- 
self, and  never  would  forgive  her  bad  boy,  if  my  aunt  re- 
mained behind,  on  any  pretense. 

"  I  won't  speak  to  you,"  said  Dora,  shaking  her  curls  at 
my  aunt.  "  I'll  be  disagreeable!  I'll  make  Jip  bark  at  you 
all  day.  I  shall  be  sure  that  you  really  are  a  cross  old  thing, 
if  you  don't  go!" 

"  Tut,  Blossom!"  laughed  my  aunt.  "  You  know  you  can't 
do  without  me!" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Dora.  "You  are  no  use  to  me  at  all. 
You  never  run  up  and  down  stairs  for  me,  all  day  long. 
You  never  sit  and  tell  me  stories  about  Doady,  when  his 


734  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

shoes  were  worn  out,  and  he  was  covered  with  dust — oh, 
what  a  poor  mite  of  a  fellow!  You  never  do  anything  at  all 
to  please  me,  do  you,  dear?"  Dora  made  haste  to  kiss  my 
aunt,  and  say,  "Yes,  you  do!  I'm  only  joking!" — lest  my 
aunt  should  think  she  really  meant  it. 

"  But,  aunt,"  said  Dora,  coaxingly,  "  now  listen.  You 
must  go.  I  shall  tease  you,  'till  you  let  me  have  my  own 
way  about  it.  I  shall  lead  my  naughty  boy  such  a  life,  if  he 
don't  make  you  go.  I  shall  make  myself  so  disagreeable — 
and  so  will  Jip!  You'll  wish  you  had  gone,  like  a  good 
thing,  tor  ever  and  ever  so  long,  if  you  don't  go.  Besides," 
said  Dora,  putting  back  her  hair,  and  looking  wonderingly 
at  my  aunt  and  me,  *'  why  shouldn't  you  both  go?  I  am  not 
very  ill  indeed.     Am  I?  " 

'*  Why,  what  a  question!"  cried  my  aunt. 

"What  a  fancy!"  said  I. 

"Yes!  I  know  I  am  a  silly  little  thing!"  said  Dora,  slowly 
looking  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  and  then  putting  up  het 
pretty  lips  to  kiss  us  as  she  lay  upon  her  couch.  "  Well, 
then,  you  must  both  go,  or  I  shall  not  believe  you;  and  then 
I  shall  cry!" 

I  saw,  in  my  aunt's  face,  that  she  began  to  give  way  now, 
and  Dora  brightened  again,  as  she  saw  it  too. 

"  You'll  come  back  with  so  much  to  tell  me,  that  it'll  take 
at  leastaweek  to  make  me  understand!"  said  Dora.  "Because 
I  kncnv  I  shan't  understand,  for  a  length  of  time,  if  there's  any 
business  in  it.  And  there's  sure  to  be  some  business  in  it! 
If  the.re's  any  thing  to  add  up,  besides,  I  don't  know  when  I 
shall  make  it  out;  and  my  bad  boy  will  look  so  miserable  all 
the  time.  There!  Now  you'll  go,  won't  you?  You'll  only 
be  gone  one  night,  and  Jip  will  take  care  of  me  while  you 
are  gone.  Doady  will  carry  me  up  stairs  before  you  go,  and 
I  won't  come  down  again  till  you  come  back;  and  you  shall 
take  Agnes  a  dreadfully  scolding  letter  from  me,  because 
she  has  never  been  to  see  us!" 

We  agreed,  without  any  more  consultation,  that  we  would 
both  go,  and  that  Dora  was  a  little  Imposter,  whg  feigned  to 
be  rather  unwell,  because  she  liked  to  be  petted.  She  was 
greatly  pleased,  and  very  merry;  and  we  four,  that  is  to  say 
my  aunt,  Mr.  Dick,  Traddles,  and  I,  went  down  to  Canter- 
bury by  the  Dover  mail  that  night. 

At  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Micawber  had  requested  us  to 
await  him,  which  we  got  into,  with  some  trouble,  in  the  mid- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  735 

die  of  the  night,  I  found  a  letter,  importing  that  he  would 
appear  in  the  morning  punctually  at  half-past  nine.  After 
which,  we  went  shivering,  at  that  uncomfortable  hour,  to  our 
respective  beds,  through  various  close  passages;  which  smelt 
as  if  they  had  been  steeped,  for  ages,  in  a  solution  of  soup 
and  stables. 

Early  in  the  morning,  I  sauntered  through  the  dear  old 
tranquil  streets,  and  again  mingled  with  the  shadows  of  the 
venerable  gate-ways  and  churches.  The  rooks  were  sailing 
about  the  cathedral  towers;  and  the  towers  themselves,  over- 
looking many  a  long  unaltered  mile  of  the  rich  country  and 
its  pleasant  streams,  were  cutting  the  bright  morning  air,  as  if 
there  were  no  such  thing  as  change  on  earth.  Yet  the  bells, 
when  they  sounded,  told  me  sorrowfully  of  change  in  every- 
thing; told  me  of  their  own  age;  and  my  pretty  Dora's 
youth;  and  of  the  many,  never  old,  who  had  lived  and  loved 
and  died,  while  the  reverberations  of  the  bells  had  hummed 
through  the  rusty  armor  of  the  Black  Prince  hanging  up 
within,  and,  motes  upon  the  deep  of  Time,  had  lost  them- 
selves in  air,  as  circles  do  in  water. 

I  looked  at  the  old  house  from  the  corner  of  the  street, 
but  did  not  go  nearer  to  it,  lest,  being  observed,  I  might  un- 
wittingly do  any  harm  to  the  design  I  had  come  to  aid. 
The  early  sun  was  striking  edgewise  on  its  gables  and  lattice- 
windows,  touching  them  with  gold;  and  some  beams  of  its 
old  peace  seemed  to  touch  my  heart. 

I  strolled  into  the  country  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  re- 
turned by  the  main  street,  which  in  the  interval  had  shaken 
off  its'  last  night's  sleep.  Among  those  who  were  stirring 
in  the  shops,  I  saw  my  ancient  enemy  the  butcher,  now  ad- 
vanced to  top-boots  and  a  baby,  and  in  business  for  him- 
self. He  was  nursing  the  baby,  and  appeared  to  be  a  be- 
nignant member  of  society. 

\Ve  all  became  very  anxious  and  impatient,  when  we  sat 
down  to  breakfast.  As  it  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to 
half-past  nine  o'clock,  our  restless  expectation  of  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber  increased.  At  last  we  made  no  more  pretense  of  attend- 
ing to  the  meal,  which,  except  with  Mr.  Dick,  had  been  a 
mere  form  from  the  first;  but  my  aunt  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  Traddles  sat  upon  the  sofa  affecting  to  read  the 
paper  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling;  and  I  looked  out  of 
the  window  to  give  early  notice  of  Mr.  Micawber's  coming. 


735  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

Nor  had  I  long  to  watch,  for,  at  the  first  chime  of  the  half- 
hour,  he  appeared  in  the  street. 

"Here  he  is!"  said  I,  "  and  not  in  his  legal  attire!" 

My  aunt  had  tied  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  (she  had  come 
down  to  breakfast  in  it),  and  put  on  her  shawl,  as  if  she 
was  ready  for  anything  that  was  resolute  and  uncompromis- 
ing. Traddles  buttoned  his  coat  with  a  determined  air. 
Mr.  Dick,  disturbed  by  these  formidable  appearances,  but 
feeling  it  necessary  to  imitate  them,  pulled  his  hat,  with  both 
hands,  as  firmly  over  his  ears  as  he  possibly  could;  and  in- 
stantly took  it  off  again,  to  welcome  Mr.  Micawber. 

"Gentlemen,  and  madam,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "good 
morning!  My  dear  sir,"  to  Mr.  Dick,  who  shook  hands 
with  him  violently,  "you  are  extremely  good." 

"  Have  you  breakfasted?"  said  Mr.  Dick.    "  Have  a  chop!" 

"Not  for  the  world,  my  good  sir!"  cried  Mr.  Micawber, 
stopping  him  on  his  way  to  the  bell;  "appetite  and  myself, 
Mr.  Dixon,  have  long  been  strangers  " 

Mr.  Dixon  was  so  pleased  with  his  new  name,  and  ap- 
peared to  think  it  so  very  obliging  in  Mr.  Micawber  to  con- 
fer it  upon  him,  that  he  shook  hands  with  him  again,  and 
laughed  rather  childishly. 

"Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  "attention!" 

Mr.  Dick  recovered  himself  with  a  blush. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  my  aunt  to  Mr.  Micawber,  as  she  put  on 
her  gloves,  "  we  are  ready  for  Mount  Vesuvius,  or  anything 
else,  as  soon  a.?,  you  please." 

"  Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  I  trust  you  will 
shortly  witness  an  eruption.  Mr.  Traddles,  I  have  your 
permission,  I  believe,  to  mention  here  that  we  have  been  in 
communication  together  T* 

"It  is  undoubtedly  the  fact,  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles, 
to  whom  I  looked  in  surprise.  "  Mr.  Micawber  has  con- 
sulted me,  in  reference  to  what  he  has  in  contemplation; 
and  I  have  advised  him  to  the  best  of  my  judgment." 

"  Unless  I  deceive  myself,  Mr.  Traddles,"  pursued  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  what  I  contemplate  is  a  disclosure  of  an  im- 
portant nature." 

"  Highly  so,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Perhaps,  under  such  circumstances,  madam  and  gentle- 
men," said  Mr.  Micawber,  "you  will  do  me  the  favor  to 
submit  yourselves,  for  the  moment,  to  the  direction  of  one, 
who,  however  unworthy  to  be  regarded  in  any  other  light 
but  as  a  Waif  and  Stray  upon  the  shore  of  human  nature,  is» 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  737 

still  your  fellow  man,  though  crushed  out  of  his  original 
form  by  individual  errors  and  the  accumulative  force  of  a 
combination  of  circumstances  ?" 

"  We  have  perfect  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Micawber,"  said 
I,  "  and  will  do  what  you  please." 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  your  con- 
fidence is  not,  at  the  existing  juncture,  ill-bestowed.  I 
would  beg  to  be  allowed  a  start  of  five  minutes  by  the 
clock  ;  and  then  to  receive  the  present  company,  inquiring 
for  Miss  Wickfield,  at  the  office  of  Wickfield  and  Heep, 
whose  Stipendiary  I  am." 

My  aunt  and  I  looked  at  Traddles,who  nodded  his  approval. 

"  I  have  no  more,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  '*  to  say  at 
present." 

With  which,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  he  included  us  all  in 
a  comprehensive  bow,  and  disappeared  ;  his  manner  being 
extremely  distant,  and  his  face  extremely  pale. 

Traddles  only  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  (with  his  hair 
standing  upright  on  the  top  of  it,)  when  I  looked  to  him 
for  an  explanation;  so  I  took  out  my  watch,  and,  as  a  last 
resource,  counted  off  the  five  minutes.  My  aunt,  with  her  own 
watch  in  her  hand,  did  the  like.  When  the  time  was  ex- 
pired, Traddles  gave  her  his  arm  ;  and  we  all  went  out 
together  to  the  old  house,  without  saying  one  word  on  the 
way. 

We  found  Mr.  Micawber  at  his  desk,  in  the  turret  office 
on  the  ground  floor,  either  writing,  or  pretending  to  write, 
hard.  The  large  office-ruler  was  stuck  into  his  waistcoat, 
and  was  not  so  well  concealed  but  that  a  foot  or  more  of 
that  instrument  protruded  from  his  bosom,  like  a  new  kind 
of  shirt-frill. 

As  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  was  expected  to  speak,  I  said 
aloud  : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  gravely,  "  I  hope 
I  see  you  well  ?  " 

*'  Is  Miss  Wickfield  at  home  ?  "  said  I. 

"Mr.  Wickfield  is  unwell  in  bed,  sir,  of  a  rheumatic 
fever,"  he  returned  ;  "  but  Miss  Wickfield,  I  have  no  doubt, 
will  be  happy  to  see  old  friends.     Will  you  walk  in,  sir  ?  " 

He  preceded  us  to  the  dining-room — the  first  room  I 
had  entered  in  that  house — and  throwing  open  the  door  of 
Mr.  Wickfield's  former  office,  said,  in  a  sonorous  voice : 


738  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Miss  Trotwood,  Mr.  David  Copperfield,  Mr.  Thomas 
Traddles,  and  Mr.  Dixon  !  " 

I  had  not  seen  Uriah  Heep  since  the  time  of  the  blow. 
Our  visit  astonished  him,  evidently  ;  not  the  less,  I  dare 
say,  because  it  astonished  ourselves.  He  did  not  gather 
his  eyebrows  together,  for  he  had  none  worth  mentioning ; 
but  he  frowned  to  that  degree  that  he  almost  closed  his 
small  eyes,  while  the  hurried  raising  of  his  grisly  hand  to  his 
chin  betrayed  some  trepidation  or  surprise.  This  was  only 
when  we  were  in  the  act  of  entering  his  room,  and  when  I 
caught  a  glance  at  him  over  my  aunt's  shoulder.  A  mo- 
ment afterwards,  he  was  as  fawning  and  humble  as  ever. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,"  he  said.  "  This  is  indeed  an  unex- 
pected pleasure  !  To  have,  as  I  may  say,  all  friends  round 
St.  Paul's  at  once,  is  a  treat  unlooked  for !  Mr.  Copper- 
field,  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  and — if  I  may  umbly  express 
self  so — friendly  towards  them  as  is  ever  your  friends, 
whether  or  not.  Mrs.  Copperfield,  sir,  I  hope  she's  getting 
on.  We  have  been  made  quite  uneasy  by  the  poor  accounts 
we  have  had  of  her  state,  lately,  I  do  assure." 

I  felt  ashamed  to  let  him  take  my  hand,  but  I  did  not 
know  yet  what  else  to  do. 

"  Things  are  changed  in  this  office.  Miss  Trotwood,  since 
I  was  a  numble  clerk,  and  held  your  pony  ;  ain't  they  ?  " 
said  Uriah,  with  his  sickliest  smile.  "  But  /am  not  changed, 
Miss  Trotwood." 

"Well,  sir,"  returned  my  aunt,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
think  you  are  pretty  constant  to  the  promise  of  your  youth; 
if  that's  any  satisfaction  to  you." 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Uriah,  writhing  in  his 
ungainly  manner,  "  for  your  good  opinion  !  Micawber,  tell 
'em  to  let  Miss  Agnes  know — and  mother.  Mother  will  be 
quite  in  a  state,  when  she  sees  the  present  company  !  "  said 
Uriah,  setting  chairs. 

"  You  are  not  busy,  Mr.  Heep  ? "  said  Traddles,  whose 
eye  the  cunning  red  eye  accidentally  caught,  as  it  at  once 
scrutinized  and  evaded  us. 

"  No,  Mr.  Traddles,"  replied  Uriah,  resuming  his  official 
seat,  and  squeezing  his  bony  hands,  laid  palm  to  palm,  be- 
tween his  bony  knees.  "  Not  so  much  so,  as  I  could  wish. 
But  lawyers-,  sharks,  and  leeches  are  not  easily  satisfied,  you 
know  !  Not  but  what  myself  and  Micawber  have  our  hands 
pretty  full,  in  general,  on  account  of   Mr.  Wickfield's  being 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  739 

hardly  fit  for  any  occupation,  sir.  But  it's  a  pleasure  as 
well  as  a  duty,  I  am  sure,  to  work  iox  him.  You've  not  been 
intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield,  I  think,  Mr.  Traddles?  I  be- 
lieve I've  only  had  the  honor  of  seeing  you  once  myself?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield,"  re- 
turned Traddles;  "  or  I  might  perhaps  have  waited  on  you 
long  ago,  Mr.  Heep." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  reply,  which  made 
Uriah  look  at  the  speaker  again,  with  a  very  sinister  and  sus- 
picious expression.  But,  seeing  only  Traddles  with  his  good- 
natured  face,  simple  manner,  and  hair  on  end,  he  dismissed 
it  as  he  replied,  with  a  jerk  of  his  whole  body,  but  especially 
in  his  throat: 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Mr.  Traddles.  You  would  have  ad- 
mired him  as  much  as  we  all  do.  His  little  failings  would 
only  have  endeared  him  to  you  the  more.  But  if  you  would 
like  to  hear  my  fellow-partner  eloquently  spoken  of,  I  should 
refer  you  to  Copperfield.  The  family  is  a  subject  he's  very 
strong  upon,  if  you  never  heard  him." 

I  was  prevented  from  disclaiming  the  compliment  (if  I 
should  have  done  so,  in  any  case)  by  the  entrance  of  Agnes, 
now  ushered  in  'by  Mr.  Micawber.  She  was  not  quite  so 
self-possessed  as  usual,  I  thought;  and  had  evidently  under- 
gone anxiety  and  fatigue.  But  her  earnest  cordiality,  and 
her  quiet  beauty,  shone  with  the  gentler  luster  for  it. 

I  saw  Uriah  watch  her  while  she  greeted  us;  and  he  re- 
minded me  of  an  ugly  and  rebellious  genie  watching  a  good 
spirit.  In  the  meanwhile,  some  slight  sign  passed  between 
Mr.  Micawber  and  Traddles;  and  Traddles,  unobserved  ex- 
cept by  me,  went  out. 

"  Don't  wait,  Micawber,"  said  Uriah. 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  hand  upon  the  ruler  in  his  breast, 
stood  erect  before  the  door,  most  unmistakably  contemplat- 
ing one  of  his  fellow-men,  and  that  man  his  employer. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  said  Uriah.  "  Micawber  ! 
Did  you  hear  me  tell  you  not  to  wait  ?" 

"Yes  !"  replied  the  immovable  Mr.  Micawber. 

"  Then  why  do  you  wait  ?"  said  Uriah. 

"  Because  I — in  short,  choose,"  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
a  burst. 

Uriah's  cheeks  lost  color,  and  an  unwholesome  paleness, 
still  faintly  tinged  by  his  pervading  red,  overspread  them. 


740  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

He  looked  at  Mr.  Micawber  attentively,  with  his  whole  face 
breathing  short  and  quick  in  every  feature. 

"You  are  a  dissipated  fellow,  as  all  the  world  knows,"  he 
said,  with  an  effort  at  a  smile,  "and  I  am  afraid  you'll 
oblige  me  to  get  rid  of  you.  Go  along  !  I'll  talk  to  you 
presently."  ^ 

"  If  there  is  a  scoundrel  on  this  earth,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
suddenly  breaking  out  again  with  the  utmost  violence,  "  with 
whom  I  have  already  talked  too  much,  that  scoundrel's  name 
is— Keep  !" 

Uriah  fell  back,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  or  stung.  Look- 
ing slowly  round  upon  us  with  the  darkest  and  wickedest 
expression  that  his  face  could  wear,  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice  : 

"  Oho  !  This  is  a  conspiracy  !  You  have  met  here,  by 
appointment !  You  are  playing  Booty  with  my  clerk,  are 
you,  Copperfield  ?  Now,  take  care.  You'll  make  nothing 
of  this.  We  understand  each  other,  you  and  me.  There's 
no  love  between  us.  You  were  always  a  puppy  with  a  proud 
stomach,  from  your  first  coming  here;  and  you  envy  me  my 
rise,  do  you  ?  None  of  your  plots  against  me;  I'll  counter- 
plot you  !  Micawber,  you  be  off.  I'll  talk  to  you  presently." 
*'  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  ^dden  change  in 
this  fellow,  in  more  respects  than  the  extraordinary  one  of 
his  speaking  the  truth  in  one  particular,  which  assures  me 
that  he  is  brought  to  bay.  Deal  with  him  as  he  de- 
serves !" 

"  You  are  a  precious  set  of  people,  ain't  you,"  said  Uriah, 
in  the  same  low  voice,  and  breaking  out  into  a  clammy  heat, 
which  he  wiped  from  his  forehead,  with  his  long,  lean  hand, 
"  to  buy  over  my  clerk,  who  is  the  very  scum  of  society, — as 
you  yourself  were,  Copperfield,  you  know  it,  before  anyone 
had  charity  on  you, — to  defame  me  with  his  lies  ?  Miss  Trot- 
wood,  you  had  better  stop  this;  or  I'll  stop  your  husband 
shorter  than  will  be  pleasant  to  you.  I  won't  know  your 
story,  professionally,  for  nothing,  old  lady  !  Miss  Wickfield, 
if  you  have  any  love  for  your  father,  you  had  better  not  join 
that  gang^  I'll  ruin  him,  if  you  do.  Now,  come  !  I  have 
got  some  of  you  under  the  harrow.  Think  twice,  before  it 
goes  over  with  some  of  you.  Think  twice,  you,  Micawber, 
if  you  don't  want  to  be  crushed.  I  recommend  you  to  take 
yourself  off,  and  be  talked  to  presently,  you  fool  !  while 
there's  time  to  retreat.  Where's  mother  ?"  he  said,  suddenly 
appearing  to  notice,  with  alarm,  the  absence  of  Traddles, 
and  pulling  down  the  bell-rope.  "  Fine  doings  in  a  person's 
own  house !" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  741 

"Mrs.  Heep  is  here,  sir,"  said  Traddles,  returning  with 
that  worthy  mother  of  a  worthy  son.  "  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of   making  myself  known  to  her." 

"  VVho  are  you  to  make  yourself  known  ?"  retorted  Uriah. 
"And  what  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"  I  am  the  agent  and  friend  of  Mr.  Wickfield,  sir,"  said 
Traddles,  in  a  composed,  business-like  way.  "  And  I  have  a 
power  of  attorney  from  him  in  my  pocket,  to  act  for  him  in 
all  matters." 

"  The  old  ass  has  drunk  himself  into  a  state  of  dotage," 
said  Uriah,  turning  uglier  than  before,  "  and  it  has  been  got 
from  him  by  fraud!" 

"  Something  has  been  got  from  him  by  fraud,  I  know," 
returned  Traddles,  quietly;  "and  so  do  you,  Mr.  Heep.  We 
will  refer  that  question,  if  you  please,  to  Mr.  Micawber." 

"  Ury — !"  Mrs.  Heep  began,  with  an  anxious  gesture. 

"You  hold  your  tongue,  mother,"  he  returned;  "least 
said,  soonest  mended." 

"  But  my  Ury—" 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  mother,  and  leave  it  to  me?" 

Though  I  had  long  known  that  his  servility  was  false,  and 
all  his  pretenses  knavish  and  hollow,  I  had  had  no  adequate 
conception  of  the  extent  of  his  hypocrisy,  until  I  now  saw  him 
with  his  mask  off.  The  suddenness  with  which  he  dropped 
it,  when  he  perceived  that  it  was  useless  to  him;  the  malice, 
insolence,  and  hatred  he  revealed;  the  leer  with  which  he 
exulted,  even  at  this  moment,  in  the  evil  he  had  done — all 
this  time  being  desperate  too,  and  at  his  wits'  end  for  the 
means  of  getting  the  better  of  us — though  perfectly  consist- 
ent with  the  experience  I  had  of  him,  at  first  took  even  me 
by  surprise,  who  had  known  him  so  long,  and  disliked  him 
so  heartily. 

I  saw  nothing  of  the  look  he  conferred  on  me,  as  he 
stood  eyeing  us,  one  after  another;  for  I  had  always  under- 
stood that  he  hated  me,  and  I  remembered  the  marks  of  my 
hand  upon  his  cheek.  But  when  his  eyes  passed  on  to 
Agnes,  and  I  saw  the  rage  with  which  he  felt  his  power  over 
her  slipping  away,  and  the  exhibition,  in  their  disappoint- 
ment, of  the  odious  passions  that  had  led  him  to  aspire  to  one 
whose  virtues  he  could  never  appreciate  or  care  for,  I  was 
shocked  by  the  mere  thought  of  her  having  lived,  an  hour, 
within  sight  of   such  a  man. 


742  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

After  some  rubbing  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  and 
some  looking  at  us  with  those  bad  eyes,  over  his  grisly 
fingers,  he  made  one  more  address  to  me,  half  whining,  and 
half  abusive. 

"  You  think  it  justifiable,  do  you,  Copperfield,  you  who 
pride  yourself  so  much  on  your  honor  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
to  sneak  about  my  place,  eaves-dropping  with  the  clerk  ?  If 
it  had  been  itie^  I  shouldn't  have  wondered;  tor  I  don't 
make  myself  out  a  gentleman  (though  I  never  was  in  the 
streets  either,  as  you  were,  according  to  Micawber),  but  be- 
mgyou! — And  you're  not  afraid  of  doing  this,  either?  You 
don't  think  at  all  of  what  I  shall  do,  in  return;  or  of  get- 
ting yourself  into  trouble  for  conspiracy  and  so  forth  ?  Very 
well.  We  shall  see!  Mr.  What's-your-narae,  you  were  go- 
ing to  refer  some  question  to  Micawber.  "There's  your 
referee.  Why  don't  you  make  him  speak.  He  has  learned 
his  lesson,  I  see." 

Seeing  that  what  he  said  had  no  effect  on  me  or  any 
of  us,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  table  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  one  of  his  splay  feet  twisted  around  the  other 
leg,  waiting  doggedly  for  what  might  follow. 

Mr.  Micawber,  whose  impetuosity  I  had  restrained  thu.i 
far  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  and  who  had  repeatedly  inter- 
posed with  the  first  syllable  of  ScouN-drel!  without  getting 
to  the  second,  now  burst  forward,  drew  the  ruler  from  his 
breast  (apparently  as  a  defensive  weapon),  and  produced 
from  his  pocket  a  foolscap  document,  folded  in  the  form  of 
a  large  letter.  Opening  this  packet,  with  his  old  flourish, 
and  glancing  at  the  contents,  as  if  he  cherished  an  artistic 
admiration  of  their  style  of  composition,  he  began  to  read 
as  follows: 

"  '  Dear  Miss  Trotwood  and  gentlemen '  ** 

"Bless  and  save  the  man!"  exclaimed  my  ^-unt  in  a  low 
voice.  "  He'd  write  letters  by  the  ream,  if  it  was  a  capital 
offense!" 

Mr.  Micawber,  without  hearing  her,  went  on. 
"  *  In  appearing  before  you  to  denounce  probably  the 
most  consummate  Villain  that  has  ever  existed,' "  Mr.  Mic- 
awber, without  looking  off  the  letter,  pointed  the  ruler,  like 
a  ghostly  truncheon,  at  Uriah  Heep,  "  '  I  ask  no  considera- 
tion for  myself.  The  victim,  from  my  cradle,  of  pecuniary 
liabilities  to  which  I  have  been  unable  to  respond,  I  have 
ever  been   the   sport  and  toy  of  debasing  circumstances. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  743 

Ignominy,  Want,  Despair,  and  Madness,  have,  collectively 
or  separately,  been  the  attendants  of  my  career.'  " 

The  relish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  described  himself, 
as  a  prey  to  these  dismal  calamities,  was  only  to  be  equaled 
by  the  emphasis  with  which  he  read  his  letter;  and  the  kind 
of  homage  he  rendered  to  it  with  a  roll  of  his  head,  when  he 
thought  he  had  hit  a  sentence  very  hard  indeed. 

"  *  In  an  accumulation  of  Ignominy,  Want,  Despair  and 
Madness,  I  entered  the  office — or  as  our  lively  neighbor  the 
Gaul  would  term  it,  the  Bureau — of  the  Firm,  nominally  con- 
ducted under  the  appellation  of  Wickfield  and — Heep,  but, 
in  reahty,  wielded  by — Heep  alone.  Heep,  and  only  Heep, 
is  the  mainspring  of  that  machine.  Heep,  and  only  Heep, 
is  the  Forger  and  the  Cheat.' " 

Uriah,  more  blue  than  white  at  these  words,  made  a  dart 
at  the  letter,  as  if  to  tear  it  in  pieces.  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
a  perfect  miracle  of  dexterity  or  luck,  caught  his  advancing 
knuckles  with  the  ruler,  and  disabled  his  right  hand.  It 
dropped  at  the  wrist,  as  if  it  were  broken.  The  blow  sounded 
as  if  it  had  fallen  on  wood. 

"  The  Devil  take  you!"  said  Uriah,  writhing  in  anew  way 
with  pain.     "  I'll  be  even  with  you." 

"Approach  me  again,  you — you — you  Heep  of  infamy," 
gasped  Mr.  Micawber,  "  and  if  your  head  is  human,  I'll 
break  it.     Come  on,  come  on." 

I  think  I  never  saw  anything  more  ridiculous — I  was  sen- 
sible of  it,  even  at  the  time — than  Mi.  Micawber  making 
broad-sword  guards  with  the  ruler,  and  crying,  "Come  on!" 
while  Traddles  and  I  pushed  him  back  into  a  corner,  from 
which,  as  often  as  we  got  him  into  it,  he  persisted  in  emerg- 
ing again. 

His  enemy  muttering  to  himself,  after  wringing  his 
wounded  hand  for  some  time,  slowly  drew  off  his  neck- 
kerchief  and  bound  it  up;  then,  held  it  in  his  other  hand, 
and  sat  upon  his  table  with  his  sullen  face  looking  down. 

Mr.  Micawber,  when  he  was  sufficiently  cool,  proceeded 
with  his  letter. 

"  '  The  stipendiary  emoluments  in  consideration  of  which 
I  entered  into  the  service  of — Heep,'  "  always  pausing  before 
that  word,  and  uttering  it  with  astonishing  vigor,  "  *  were  not 
defined,  beyond  the  pittance  of  twenty-two  shillings  and  six 
per  week.  The  rest  was  left  contingent  on  the  value  of  my 
professional  exertions;  in  other  and  more  expressive  words. 


744  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

on  the  baseness  of  my  nature,  the  cupidity  of  my  motives, 
the  poverty  of  my  family,  the  general  moral  (or  rather  im- 
moral) resemblance  between  myself  and — Heep.  Need  I 
say,  that  it  soon  became  necessary  for  me  to  solicit  from — 
Heep — pecuniary  advances  towards  the  support  of  Mrs. 
Micawber,  and  our  blighted  but  rising  family?  Need  I  say 
that  this  necessity  had  been  foreseen  by — Heep?  That 
those  advances  were  secured  by  I  O  U's  and  other  similar 
acknowledgments,  known  to  the  legal  institutions  of  this 
country?  And  that  I  thus  became  immeshed  in  the  web  he 
had  spun  for  my  reception? '  " 

Mr.  Micawber's  enjoyment  of  his  epistolary  powers  in 
describing  this  unfortunate  state  of  things,  really  seemed  to 
outweigh  any  pain  or  anxiety  that  the  reality  could  have 
caused  him.     He  read  on: 

"  *  Then  it  was  that — Heep — began  to  favor  me  with  just 
so  much  of  his  confidence,  as  was  necessary  to  the  discharp;e 
of  his  infernal  business.  Then  it  was  that  I  began,  if  I  may 
so  Shakespearianly  express  myself,  to  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine. 
I  found  that  my  services  were  constantly  called  into  requisi- 
tion for  the  falsification  of  business,  and  the  mystification  of 
an  individual  whom  I  will  designate  as  Mr.  W.  That  Mr. 
W.  was  imposed  upon,  kept  in  ignorance,  and  deluded,  in 
every  possible  way;  yet,  that  all  this  while,  the  ruffian — 
Heep — was  professing  unbounded  gratitude  to,  and  un- 
bounded friendship  for,  that  much  abused  gentleman.  This 
was  bad  enough;  but,  as  the  philosophic  Dane  observes,  with 
that  universal  applicability  which  distinguishes  the  illustri- 
ous ornament  of  the  Elizabethan  Era,  worse  remains 
behind!'" 

Mr.  Micawber  was  so  very  much  struck  by  this  happy 
rounding  off  with  a  quotation,  that  he  indulged  himself,  and 
us,  with  a  second  reading  of  the  sentence,  under  pretense  of 
having  lost  his  place. 

"  *  It  is  not  my  intention,  "  he  continued,  reading  on,  *' '  to 
enter  on  a  detailed  list,  within  the  compass  of  the  present 
epistle  (though  it  is  ready  elsewhere),  of  the  various  mal- 
practices of  a  minor  nature,  affecting  the  individual  whom  I 
have  denominated  Mr.  W.,  to  which  I  have  been  a  tacitly 
consenting  party.  My  object,  when  the  contest  within  my- 
self between  stipend  and  no  stipend,  baker  and  no  baker, 
existence  and  non-existence  ceased,  was  to  take  advantage 
of  my  opportunities  to  discover  and  expose  the  major  mal- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  745 

practices  committed,  to  that  gentleman's  grievous  wrong  and 
injury,  by — Heep.  Stimulated  by  the  silent  monitor  within, 
and  by  a  no  less  touching  and  appealing  monitor  without — 
to  whom  I  will  briefly  refer  as  Miss  W. — I  entered  on  a 
not  unlaborious  task  of  clandestine  investigation,  pro- 
tracted now,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  information,  and 
belief,  over  a  period  exceeding  twelve  calendar  months.*  " 

He  read  this  passage,  as  if  it  were  from  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment; and  appeared  majestically  refreshed  by  the  sound  of 
the  words. 

"  *  My  charges  against  Heep,*  '*  he  read  on,  glancing  at 
him,  and  drawing  the  ruler  into  a  convenient  position  under 
his  left  arm,  in  case  of  need,  "  'are  as  follows.'  " 

We  all  held  our  breath,  I  think.  I  am  sure  Uriah  held 
his. 

"  *  First,  "  said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  *  When  Mr.  W.'s  faculties 
and  memory  for  business  became,  through  causes  which  it  is 
not  necessary  or  expedient  for  me  to  enter,  weakened  and 
confused, — Heep — designedly  perplexed  and  complicated 
the  whole  of  the  official  transactions.  When  Mr.  W.  was 
least  fit  to  enter  on  business, — Heep — was  always  on  hand 
to  force  him  to  enter  on  it.  He  obtained  Mr.  W.'s  signa- 
ture under  such  circumstances  to  documents  of  importance, 
representing  them  to  be  other  documents  of  no  importance. 
He  induced  Mr.  W.  to  empower  him  to  draw  out,  thus,  one 
particular  sum  of  trust-money,  amounting  to  twelve  six 
fourteen,  two,  and  nine,  and  employed  it  to  meet  pretended 
business  charges  and  deficiencies  which  were  either  already 
provided  for,  or  had  never  really  existed.  He  gave  this 
proceeding,  throughout,  the  appearance  of  having  originated 
in  Mr.  W.'s  own  dishonest  intention,  and  of  having  been  ac- 
complished by  Mr.  W.'s  own  dishonest  act;  and  has  used 
it  ever  since,  to  torture  and  constrain  him.'  " 

"You  shall  prove  this,  you  Copperfield!"  said  Uriah,  with 
a  threatening  shake  of  the  head.     "  All  in  good  time." 

"  Ask — Heep — Mr.  Traddles,  who  lived  in  his  house  after 
him,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, breaking  off  from  the  letter;  "will 


you 


The  fool  himself — and  lives  there  now,"  said  Uriah,  dis- 
dainfully. 

"Ask — Heep — if  he  ever  kept  a  pocket-book  in  that 
house,"  said  Mr.  Micawber;  "will  you?" 

I  saw  Uriah's  lank  hand  stop,  involuntarily,  in  the  scrap* 
ing  of  his  chin. 


746  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Or  ask  him,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  if  he  ever  burnt  one 
there.  If  he  says  yes,  and  asks  you  where  the  ashes  are, 
refer  him  to  Wilkins  Micawber,  and  he  will  hear  of  some- 
thing not  at  all  to  his  advantage!" 

The  triumphant  flourish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  deliv- 
ered himself  of  these  words,  had  a  powerful  effect  in  alarm- 
ing the  mother;  who  cried  out,  in  much  agitation: 

"  Ury,  Ury!     Be  umble,  and  make  terms,  my  dear!" 

**  Mother!"  he  retorted,  "  will  you  keep  quiet  ?  You're  in 
a  fright,  and  don't  know  what  you  say  or  mean.  Umble!" 
he  repeated,  looking  at  me  with  a  snarl;  "I've  umbled  some 
of  'em  for  a  pretty  long  time  back,  umble  as  I  was!" 

Mr.  Micawber,  genteelly  adjusting  his  chin  to  his  cravat, 
presently  proceeded  with  his  composition. 

"  '  Second,  Heep  has,  on  several  occasions,  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,'  " 

"  But  that  won't  do,"  muttered  Uriah,  relieved.  *'  Mother, 
you  keep  quiet." 

"  We  will  endeavor  to  provide  something  that  will  do, 
and  do  for  you  finally,  sir,  very  shortly,"  replied  Mr.  Mic- 
awber. 

"  *  Second.  Heep  has,  on  several  occasions,  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  systematically 
forged,  to  various  entries,  books,  and  documents,  the  signa- 
ture of  Mr.  W.;  and  has  distinctly  done  so  in  one  instance, 
capable  of  proof  by  me.  To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that 
is  to  say:'  " 

Again,  Mr.  Micawber  had  a  relish  in  this  formal  piling  up 
of  words,  which,  however  ludicrously  displayed  in  his  case, 
was,  I  must  say,  not  at  all  peculiar  to  him.  I  have  observed 
it,  in  the  couise  of  my  life,  in  numbers  of  men.  It  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  general  rule.  In  the  taking  of  legal  oaths,  for 
instance,  deponents  seem  to  enjoy  themselves  mightily  when 
they  come  to  several  good  words  in  succession,  for  the  ex- 
pression of  one  idea;  as,  that  they  utterly  detest,  abominate, 
and  abjure,  or  so  forth;  and  the  old  anathemas  were  made 
relishing  on  the  same  principle.  We  talk  about  the  tyranny 
of  words,  but  we  like  to  tyrannize  over  them  too;  we  are 
fond  of  having  a  large  superfluous  establishment  of  words  to 
wait  upon  us  on  great  occasions;  we  think  it  looks  import- 
ant, and  sounds  well.  As  we  are  not  particular  about  the 
meaning  of  our  liveries  on  state  occasions,  if  they  be  but  fine 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  747 

and  numerous  enough,  so,  the  meaning  or  necessity  of 
our  words  is  a  secondary  consideration,  if  there  be  but  a 
great  parade  of  them.  And  as  individuals  get  into  trouble 
by  making  too  great  a  show  of  liveries,  or  as  slaves  when 
they  are  too  numerous,  rise  against  their  masters,  so  I  think 
I  could  mention  a  nation  that  has  got  into  many  great 
difficulties,  and  will  get  into  many  greater  from  maintaining 
too  large  a  retinue  of  words. 

Mr.  Micawber  read  on,  almost  smacking  his  lips  : 

"  *  To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that  is  to  say,  Mr.  W. 
being  infirm,  and  it  being  within  the  bounds  of  probability 
that  his  decease  might  lead  to  some  discoveries,  and  to  the 
downfall  of — Heep's — power  over  the  W.  family, — as  I,  Wil- 
kins  Micawber,  the  undersigned,  assume — unless  the  filial 
affection  of  his  daughter  could  be  secretly  influenced  from 
allowing  any  investigation  of  the  partnership  affairs  to  be 
ever  made,  the  said — Heep — deemed  it  expedient  to  have  a 
bond  ready  for  him,  as  from  Mr.  W.,  for  the  before-men- 
tioned sum  of  twelve  six  fourteen,  two  and  nine,  with  interest, 
stated  therein  to  have  been  advanced  by — Heep — to  Mr.  W., 
to  save  Mr.  W.  from  dishonor  ;  though  really  the  sum  was 
never  advanced  by  him,  and  has  long  been  replaced.  The 
signatures  to  this  document,  purporting  to  be  executed  by 
Mr.  W.  and  attested  by  Wilkins  Micawber,  are  forgeries 
by — Heep.  I  have,  in  my  possession,  in  his  hand  and 
pocket-book,  several  similar  imitations  of  Mr.  W.'s  signa- 
ture, here  and  there  defaced  by  fire,  but  legible  to  any  one. 
I  never  attested  any  such  document.  And  I  have  the  docu- 
ment itself  in  my  possession.'  " 

Uriah  Heep,  with  a  start,  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  bunch 
of  keys,  and  opened  a  certain  drawer  ;  then,  suddenly  be- 
thought himself  of  what  he  was  about,  and  turned  again  to- 
ward us,  without  looking  in  it. 

"  *  And  I  have  the  document,*  "  Mr.  Micawber  read  again, 
looking  about  as  if  it  were  the  text  of  a  sermon,  "  *in  my 
possession,' — that  is  to  say,  I  had,  early  this  morning,  when 
this  was  written,  but  have  since  relinquished  it  to  Mr. 
Traddles." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  assented  Traddles. 

"  Ury,  Ury  !  "  cried  the  mother,  "  be  umble  and  make 
terms.  I  know  my  son  will  be  umble,  gentlemen,  if  you'll 
give  him  time  to  think.  Mr.  Copperfield,  I'm  sure  you  know 
he  was  always  very  umble,  sir  ? " 


748  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

It  was  singular  to  see  how  the  mother  still  held  to  the  old 
trick,  when  the  son  had  abandoned  it  as  useless. 

"  Mother,'*  he  said,  with  an  impatient  bite  at  the  hand- 
kerchief in  which  his  hand  was  wrapped,  "  you  had  better 
take  and  fire  a  loaded  gun  at  me." 

"  But  I  love  you,  Ury,"  cried  Mrs.  Heep.  And  I  have 
no  doubt  she  did;  or  that  he  loved  her,  however  strange  it 
may  appear;  though,  to  be  sure,  they  were  a  congenial 
couple.  "  And  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  provoking  the  gen- 
tlemen, and  endangering  of  yourself  more.  I  told  the 
gentleman  at  first,  when  he  told  me  up-stairs  it  was 
come  to  light,  that  I  would  answer  for  your  being  umble, 
and  making  amends.  Oh,  see  how  umble  /  am,  gentlemen, 
and  don't  mind  him  !  " 

*'  Why,  there's  Copperfield,  mother,"  he  angrily  retorted, 
pointing  his  lean  finger  at  me,  against  whom  all  his  ani- 
mosity was  leveled,  as  the  prime  mover  in  the  discovery  ; 
and  I  did  not  undeceive  him  ;  *'  there's  Copperfield,  would 
have  given  you  a  hundred  pound  to  say  less  than  you  have 
blurted  out !  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Ury,"  cried  his  mother.  "  I  can't  see 
you  running  into  danger,  through  carrying  your  head  so 
high.*    Better  be  umble,  as  you  always  was." 

He  remained  for  a  little,  biting  the  handkerchief,  and 
then  said  to  me  with  a  scowl : 

"  What  more  have  you  got  to  bring  forward  ?  If  any- 
thing, go  on  with  it.     What  do  you  look  at  me  for  ?" 

Mr.  Micawber  promptly  resumed  his  letter,  only  too  glad 
to  revert  to  a  performance  with  which  he  was  so  highly 
satisfied. 

"  *  Third.  And  la€t.  I  am  now  in  a  condition  to  show, 
by — Heep's — false  beoks,  and — Heep's — real  memoranda, 
beginning  with  the  partially  destroyed  pocket-book  (which 
I  was  unable  to  comprehend,  at  the  time  of  its  accidental 
discovery  by  Mrs.  Micawber  on  our  taking  possession  of  our 
present  abode,  in  the  locker  or  bin  devoted  to  the  recep- 
tion of  the  ashes  calcined  on  our  domestic  hearth),  that  the 
weaknesses,  the  faults,  the  very  virtues,  the  parental  affec- 
tions, and  the  sense  of  honor,  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  W.  have 
been  for  years  acted  on  by,  and  warped  to  the  base  pur- 
poses of — Heep.  That  Mr.  W.  has  been  for  years  deluded 
and  plundered,  in  every  conceivable  manner,  to  the  pecu- 
niary aggrandizement  of  the  avaricious,  false  and  grasping — 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  749 

Keep.  That  the  engrossing  object  of — Heep — was,  next  to 
gain,  to  subdue  Mr.  and  Miss  W.  (of  his  ulterior  views  in 
reference  to  the  latter  I  say  nothing)  entirely  to  himself. 
That  his  last  act,  completed  but  a  few  months  since,  was  to 
induce  Mr.  W.  to  execute  a  relinquishment  of  his  share  in 
the  partnership,  and  even  a  bill  of  sale  on  the  very  furniture 
of  his  house,  in  consideration  of  a  certain  annuity,  to  be 
well  and  truly  paid  by — Heep — on  the  four  common  quar- 
ter-days in  each  and  every  year.  That  these  meshes;  be- 
ginning with  alarming  and  falsified  accounts  of  the  estate  of 
which  Mr.  W.  is  the  receiver,  at  a  period  when  Mr.  W.  had 
launched  into  imprudent  and  ill-judged  speculations,  and 
may  not  have  had  the  money,  for  which  he  was  morally  and 
legally  responsible,  in  hand;  going  on  with  pretended  bor- 
rowings of  money  at  enormous  interest,  really  coming  from — " 
Heep — and  b'^ — Heep — fraudulently  obtained  or  withheld 
from  Mr.  W.  himself,  on  pretence  of  such  speculations  or 
otherwise;  perpetuated  by  a  miscellaneous  catalogue  of  un- 
scrupulous chicaneries — gradually  thickened,  until  the  un- 
happy Mr.  W.  could  see  no  world  beyond.  Bankrupt,  as  he 
believed,  alike  in  circumstances,  in  all  other  hope,  and  in 
honor,  his  sole  reliance  was  upon  the  monster  in  the  garb  of 
man,'  " — Mr.  Micawber  made  a  good  deal  of  this,  as  a  new 
turn  of  expression, — "  *  who,  by  making  himself  necessary  to 
him,  had  achieved  his  destruction.  All  this  I  undertake  to 
show.     Probably  much  more!'  " 

I  whispered  a  few  words  to  Agnes,  who  was  weeping,  half 
joyfully,  half  sorrowfully,  at  my  side;  and  there  was  a  move- 
ment among  us,  as  if  Mr.  Micawber  had  finished.  He  said, 
with  exceeding  gravity,  "  Pardon  me,"  and  proceeded,  with 
a  mixture  of  the  lowest  spirits  and  the  most  intense  enjoy- 
ment, to  the  peroration  of  his  letter. 

"  *  I  have  now  concluded.  It  merely  remains  for  me  to 
substantiate  these  accusations;  and  then,  with  my  ill-starred 
family,  to  disappear  from  the  landscape  on  which  we  appear 
to  be  an  incumbrance.  That  is  soon  done.  It  may  be  rea- 
sonably inferred  that  our  baby  will  first  expire  of  inanition, 
as  being  the  frailest  member  of  our  circle;  and  that  our 
twins  will  follow  next  in  order.  So  be  it!  For  myself,  my 
Canterbury  Pilgrimage  has  done  much;  imprisonment  on 
civil  process,  and  want,  will  soon  do  more.  I  trust  that  the 
labor  and  hazard  of  an  investigation — of  which  the  smallest 
results  have  been  slowly  pieced  together,  in  the  pressure  q( 


750  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

arduous  avocations,  under  grinding  penurious  apprehensions, 
at  rise  of  morn,  at  dewy  eve,  in  the  shadows  of  night,  under 
the  watchful  eye  of  one  whom  it  were  superfluous  to  call 
Demon — combined  with  the  struggle  of  parental  Poverty  to 
turn  it,_  when  completed,  to  the  right  account,  may  be  as  the 
sprinkling  of  a  few  drops  of  sweet  water  on  my  funereal  pyre. 
I  ask  no  more.  Let  it  be,  in  justice,  merely  said  of  me,  as 
of  a  gallant  and  eminent  Hero,  with  whom  I  have  no  pre- 
tensions to  cope,  that  what  I  have  done,  I  did,  in  despite  of 
mercenary  and  selfish  objects, 

For  England,  home,  and  Beauty. 

"  '  Remaining  always,  &c.,  &c.,  Wilkins  Micawber.'  " 

Much  affected,  but  still  intensely  enjoying  himself,  Mr. 
Micawber  folded  up  his  letter,  and  handed  ft  with  a  bow  to 
my  aunt,  as  something  she  might  like  to  keep. 

There  was,  as  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  visit  long  ago,  an 
iron  safe  in  the  room.  The  key  was  in  it.  A  hasty  suspi- 
cion seemed  to  strike  Uriah;  and,  with  a  glance  at  Mr. 
Micawber,  he  went  to  it,  and  threw  the  doors  clanking  open. 
It  was  empty. 

"  Where  are  the  books?"  he  criedj  with  a  frightful  face. 
"  Some  thief  has  stolen  the  books!" 

Mr.  Micawber  tapped  himself  with  the  ruler.  "/  did, 
when  I  got  the  key  from  you  as  usual — but  a  little  earlier — 
and  opened  it  this  morning." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,"  said  Traddles.  "  They  have  come 
into  my  possession.  I  will  take  care  of  them,  under  the 
authority  I  mentioned." 

"  You  receive  stolen  goods,  do  you  ?"   cried  Uriah. 

"Under  such  circumstances,"  answered  Traddles,  "yes." 

What  was  my  astonishment  when  I  beheld  my  aunt,  who 
had  been  profoundly  quiet  and  attentive,  make  a  dart  at 
Uriah  Heep,  and  seize  him  by  the  collar  with  both  hands! 

"  You  know  what  /  want  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  A  strait-waistcoat,"  said  he. 

"No.  My  property!"  returned  my  aunt.  "Agnes,  my 
dear,  as  long  as  I  believed  it  had  been  really  made  away 
with  by  your  father,  I  wouldn't — and,  my  dear,  I  didn't, 
even  to  Trot,  as  he  knows — breathe  a  syllable  of  its  having 
been  placed  here  for  investment.  But  now  I  know  this 
fellow's  answerable  for  it,  and  I'll  have  it!  Trot,  come  and 
take  it  away  from  him!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  751 

Whether  my  aunt  supposed,  for  the  moment,  that  he  kept 
her  property  in  his  neckerchief,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know; 
but  she  certainly  pulled  at  it  as  if  she  thought  so.  I  hastened 
to  put  myself  between  them,  and  to  assure  her  that  we  would 
all  take  care  that  he  should  make  the  utmost  restitution  of 
everything  he  had  wrongly  got.  This,  and  a  few  moments' 
reflection,  pacified  her;  but  she  was  not  at  all  disconcerted 
by  what  she  had  done  (though  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  her 
bonnet)  and  resumed  her  seat  composedly. 

During  the  last  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Heep  had  been  clamor- 
ing to  her  son  to  be  "umble;"  and  had  been  going  down  on 
her  knees  to  all  of  us  in  succession,  and  making  the  wildest 
promises.  Her  son  sat  her  down  in  his  chair;  and,  standing 
sulkily  by  her,  holding  her  arm  with  his  hand,  but  not  rudely, 
said  to  me,  with  a  ferocious  look  : 

"  What  do  you  want  done  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  must  be  done,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Has  that  Copperfield  no  tongue  ?"  muttered  Uriah.  **  I 
would  do  a  good  deal  for  you  if  you  could  tell  me,  without 
lying,  that  somebody  had  cut  it  out." 

"  My  Uriah  means  to  be  umble!"  cried  his  mother. 
"  Don't  mind  what  he  says,  good  gentlemen!" 

"  What  must  be  done,"  said  Traddles,  ''  is  this.  First,  the 
deed  of  relinquishment,  that  we  have  heard  of,  must  be  given 
over  to  me  now — here." 

"  Suppose  I  haven't  got  it,"  he  interrupted. 

"  But  you  have,"  said  Traddles;  "  therefore,  you  know, 
we  won't  suppose  so."  And  I  cannot  help  avowing  that  this 
was  the  first  occasion  on  w^hich  I  really  did  justice  to  the 
clear  head,  and  the  plain,  patient,  practical  good  sense,  of  my 
old  schoolfellow.  "  Then,"  said  Traddles,  "  you  must  pre- 
pare to  disgorge  all  that  your  rapacity  has  become  possessed 
of,  and  to  make  restoration  to  the  last  farthing.  All  the 
partnership  books  and  papers  must  remain  in  our  posses- 
sion ;  all  your  books  and  papers;  all  money  accounts  and 
securities,  of  both  kinds.     In  short,  everything  here." 

"  Must  it !  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Uriah.  "  I  must  have 
time  to  think  about  that." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Traddles;  "  but,  in  the  meanwhile, 
and  until  everything  is  done  to  our  satisfaction,  we  shall 
maintain  possession  of  these  things;  and  beg  you — in  short, 
compel  you — to  keep  your  own  room,  and  hold  no  communi* 
cation  with  any  one," 


752  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"I  won't  do  it!"  said  Uriah,  with  an  oath. 

"  Maidstone  Jail  is  a  safer  place  of  detention,"  observed 
Traddles;  "and  though  the  law  may  be  longer  in  righting 
us,  and  may  not  be  able  to  right  us  so  completely  as  you 
can,  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  punishing  you.  Dear  me,  you 
know  that  quite  as  well  as  I!  Copperfield,  will  you  go  round 
to  the  Guildhall,  and  bring  a  couple  of  officers  ?" 

Here  Mrs.  Heep  broke  out  again,  crying  on  her  knees  to 
Agnes  to  interfere  in  their  behalf,  exclaiming  that  he  was 
very  humble,  and  it  was  all  true,  and  if  he  didn't  do  what 
we  wanted,  she  would,  and  much  more  to  the  same  purpose; 
being  half  frantic  with  fears  for  her  darling.  To  inquire 
what  he  might  have  done,  if  he  had  had  any  boldness,  would 
be  like  inquiring  what  a  mongrel  cur  might  do,  if  it  had  the 
spirit  of  a  tiger.  He  was  a  coward,  from  head  to  foot; 
and  showed  his  dastardly  nature  through  his  sullenness 
and  mortification,  as  much  as  at  any  time  of  his  mean 
life. 

**Stop!"  he  growled  to  me;  and  wiped  his  hot  face  with 
his  hand.  "  Mother,  hold  your  noise.  Well!  Let  'em  have 
that  deed.     Go  and  fetch  it!" 

*'Do  you  help  her,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  Traddles,  "if  you 
please." 

Proud  of  his  commission,  and  understanding  it,  Mr.  Dick 
accompanied  her  as  a  shepherd's  dog  might  accompany  a 
sheep.  But  Mrs.  Heep  gave  him  little  trouble;  for  she  not 
only  returned  with  the  deed,  but  with  the  box  in  which  it 
was,  where  we  found  a  banker's  book  and  some  other  papers 
that  were  afterwards  serviceable. 

"  Good!"  said  Traddles,  when  this  was  brought.  "  Now, 
Mr.  Heep,  you  can  retire  to  think:  particularly  observing, 
if  you  please,  that  I  declare  to  you,  on  the  part  of  all  pres- 
ent, that  there  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done;  that  it  is  what 
I  have  explained  ;  and  that  it  must  be  done  without  delay." 

Uriah,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  shuffled 
across  the  room  with  his  hand  to  his  chin,  and  pausing  at 
the  door,  said: 

"  Copperfield,  1  have  always  hated  you.  You've  always 
been  an  upstart,  and  you've  always  been  against  me." 

"As  I  think  I  told  you  once  before,"  said  I,  "it  is  you 
who  have  been,  in  your  greed  and  cunning,  against  all  the 
world.    It  may  be  profitable  to  you  to  reflect,  in  future,  that 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  753 

there  never  were  greed  and  cunning  in  the  world  yet,  that 
did  not  do  too  much,  and  over-reach  themselves.  It  is  as 
certain  as  death." 

"  Or  as  certain  as  they  used  to  teach  at  school  (the  same 
school  where  I  picked  up  so  much  umbleness),  from  nine 
o'clock  to  eleven,  that  labor  was  a  curse;  and  from  eleven 
o'clock  to  one,  that  it  was  a  blessing  and  a  cheerfulness, 
and  a  dignity,  and  I  don't  know  what  all,  ehi*"  said  he  with 
a  sneer.  "  You  preach,  about  as  consistent  as  they  did. 
Won't  umbleness  go  down?  I  shouldn't  have  got  round  my 
gentleman  fellow- partner  without  it,  I  think. — Micawber, 
you  old  bully,  I'll  pay  j^^.-'" 

Mr.  Micawber,  supremely  defiant  of  him  and  his  extended 
finger,  and  making  a  great  deal  of  his  chest  until  he  had 
slunk  out  at  the  door,  then  addressed  himself  to  me,  and 
proffered  me  the  satisfaction  of  "  witnessing  the  re-establish- 
ment of  mutual  confidence  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Mic» 
awber."  After  which,  he  invited  the  company  generally  to 
the  contemplation  of  that  affecting  spectacle. 

"  The  veil  that  has  long  been  interposed  between  Mrs. 
Micawber  and  myself,  is  now  withdrawn,"  said  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber; "  and  my  children  and  the  Author  of  their  Being  can 
once  more  come  into  contact  on  equal  terms." 

As  we  were  all  very  grateful  to  him,  and  all  desirous  to 
show  that  we  were,  as  well  as  the  hurry  and  disorder  of  our 
spirits  would  permit,  I  dare  say  we  should  all  have  gone, 
but  that  it  was  necessary  for  Agnes  to  return  to  her  father, 
as  yet  unable  to  bear  more  than  the  dawn  of  hope;  and  for 
some  one  else  to  hold  Uriah  in  safe-keeping.  So  Traddles 
remained  for  the  latter  purpose,  to  be  presently  relieved  by 
Mr.  Dick;  and  Mr.  Dick,  my  aunt,  and  I,  went  home  with 
Mr.  Micawber.  As  I  parted  hurriedly  from  the  dear  girl  to 
whom  I  owed  so  much,  and  thought  from  what  she  had 
been  saved,  perhaps,  that  morning — her  better  resolution 
notwithstanding — I  felt  devoutly  thankful  for  the  miseries 
of  my  younger  days  which  had  brought  me  to  the  know- 
ledge of  Mr.  Micawber. 

His  house  was  not  far  off;  ^nd  as  the  street-door  opened 
into  the  sitting-room,  and  he  bolted  in  with  a  precipitation 
quite  his  own,  we  found  ourselves  at  once  in  the  bosom  of 
the  family.  Mr.  Micawber  exclaiming,  "  Emma!  my  life!" 
rushed  into  Mrs.  Micawber's  arms,  Mrs.  Micawber  shrieked, 
and  folded  Mr.  Micawber  in  her  embrace.     "M^i^  ^I^c^wbci^ 


754*^  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

nursing  the  unconscious  stranger  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  last 
letter  to  me,  was  sensibly  affected.  The  stranger  leaped. 
The  twins  testified  their  joy  by  several  inconvenient  but  in- 
nocent demonstrations.  Master  Micawber,  whose  disposi- 
tion appeared  to  have  been  soured  by  early  disappoint- 
ment, and  whose  aspect  had  become  morose,  yielded  to  his 
better  feelings,  and  blubbered. 

"  Emma!"  said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  The  cloud  is  passed  from 
my  mind.  Mutual  confidence,  so  long  preserved  between 
us  once,  is  restored  to  know  no  farther  interruption.  Now, 
welcome  poverty!"  cried  Mr.  Micawber,  shedding  tears. 
"  Welcome  misery,  welcome  houselessness,  welcome  hunger, 
rags,  tempest,  and  beggary!  Mutual  confidence  will  sustain 
us  to  the  end!" 

With  these  expressions,  Mr.  Micawber  placed  Mrs.  Mic- 
awber in  a  chair,  and  embraced  the  family  all  round;  wel- 
coming a  variety  of  bleak  prospects,  which  appeared  to  the 
best  of  my  judgment,  to  be  anything  but  welcome  to  them; 
and  calling  upon  them  to  come  out  into  Canterbury  and 
sing  a  chorus,  as  nothing  else  was  left  for  their  support. 

But  Mrs.  Micawber  having,  in  the  strength  of  her  emo- 
tions, fainted  away,  the  first  thing  to  be  done,  even  before 
the  chorus  could  be  considered  complete,  was  to  recover 
her.  This,  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Micawber  did;  and  then  my 
aunt  was  introduced;  and  Mrs.  Micawber  recognized  me. 

'*  Excuse  me,  dear  Copperfield,"  said  the  poor  lady,  giv- 
ing me  her  hand,  "  but  I  am  not  strong ;  and  the  removal 
of  the  late  misunderstanding  between  Mr.  Micawber  and 
myself  was  at  first  too  much  for  me." 

*'Is  this  all  your  family,  ma'am?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  There  are  no  more  at  present,"  returned  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber. 

"  Good  gracious,  I  didn't  mean  that,  ma'am,"  said  my 
aunt.     '*  I  mean  are  all  these  yours  ?" 

"Madam,"  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  "it  is  a  true  bill." 

"And  that  eldest  young  gentleman,  now,"  said  my  aunt, 
musing.     "What  has  ^e  been  brought  up  to  ?  " 

"  It  was  my  hope  when  I  came  here,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
to  have  got  Wilkins  into  the  Church  ;  or  perhaps  I  shall 
express  my  meaning  more  strictly,  if  I  say  the  Choir.  But 
there  was  no  vacancy  for  a  tenor  in  the  venerable  Pile  for 
which  this  city  is  so  justly  eminent;  and  he  has — in  short, 
he  has  contracted  a  habit  of  singing  in  public  houses  rather 
than  in  sacred  edifices." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  755 

"But  he  means  well,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  tenderly. 

"  I  dare  say,  my  love,"  rejoined  Mr.  Micawber,  "  that  he 
means  particularly  well ;  but  I  have  not  yet  found  that 
he  carries  out  his  meaning,  in  any  given  direction  whatso- 
ever." 

Master  Micawber's  moroseness  of  aspect  returned  upon 
him  again,  and  he  demanded  with  some  temper,  what  he 
was  to  do  ?  Whether  he  had  been  born  a  carpenter  or 
a  coach  painter  any  more  than  he  had  been  born  a  bird  ? 
Whether  he  could  go  out  into  the  next  street  and  open  a 
chemist's  shop  ?  Whether  he  could  rush  to  the  next  as- 
sizes, and  proclaim  himself  a  lawyer?  Whether  he  could 
come  out  by  force  at  the  opera,  and  succeed  by  violence  ? 
Whether  he  could  do  anything,  without  being  brought  up 
to  something  ? 

My  aunt  mused  a  little  while,  and  then  said  : 

"  Mr.  Micawber,  I  wonder  you  have  never  turned  your 
thoughts  to  emigration." 

"Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "it  was  the  dream 
of  my  youth,  and  the  fallacious  aspiration  of  my  riper 
years."  I  am  thoroughly  persuaded,  by  the-by,  that  he 
had  never  thought  of  it  in  his  life. 

"Aye?"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  glance  at  me.  "Why, 
what  a  thing  it  would  be  for  yourselves  and  your  family, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  if  you  were  to  emigrate  now  !" 

"  Capital,  madam,  capital,"  urged  Mr.  Micawber,  gloomily. 

"  That  is  the  principal,  I  may  say  the  only  difficulty,  my 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  assented  his  wife. 

"  Capital  ?"  cried  my  aunt.  "  But  you  are  doing  us  a  great 
service — have  done  us  a  great  service,  I  may  say,  for  surely 
much  will  come  out  of  the  fire — and  what  could  we  do  for 
you,  that  would  be  half  so  good  as  to  find  the  capital  ?" 

"  I  could  not  receive  it  as  a  gift,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  full 
of  fire  and  animation,  "  but  if  a  sufficient  sum  could  be  ad- 
vanced, say  at  five  per  cent,  interest,  per  annum,  upon  my 
personal  liability — say  my  notes  of  hand,  at  twelve,  eighteen, 
and  twenty-four  months,  respectively,  to  allow  time  for 
something  to  turn  up "  4 

"  Could  be  ?  Can  be,  and  shall  be,  on  your  own  terms," 
returned  my  aunt,  "  if  you  say  the  word.  Think  of  this 
now,  both  of  you.  Here  are  some  people  David  knows 
going  out  to  Australia  shortly.     If  you  decide  to  go,  why 


756  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

shouldn't  you  go  in  the  same  ship  ?  You  may  help  each 
other.  Think  of  this  now,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  Take 
your  time,  and  weigh  it  well." 

**  There  is  but  one  question,  my  dear  ma'am,  I  could  wish 
to  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  The  climate,  I  believe,  is 
healthy  ?" 

"  Finest  in  the  world  !"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Just  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  Then  my  question 
arises.  Now,  are  the  circumstances  of  the  country  such, 
that  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities  would  have  a  fair 
chance  of  rising  in  the  social  scale  ?  I  will  not  say,  at 
present,  might  he  aspire  to  be  Governor,  or  anything  of  that 
sort;  but  would  there  be  a  reasonable  opening  for  his  talents 
to  develop  themselves — that  would  be  amply  sufficient — and 
And  their  own  expansion  ?" 

"  No  better  opening  anywhere, "  said  my  aunt,  "  for  a 
man  who  conducts  himself  well,  and  is  industrious." 

"  For  a  man  who  conducts  himself  well,'*  repeated  Mrs. 
Micawber,  with  her  clearest  business  manner,  "  and  is  indus- 
trious. Precisely.  It  is  evident  to  me  that  Australia  is  the 
legitimate  sphere  of  action  for  Mr.  Micawber  !" 

"I  entertain  the  conviction,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  that  it  is,  under  existing  circumstances,  the  land, 
the  only  land,  for  myself  and  family;  and  that  something  of 
an  extraordinary  nature  will  turn  up  on  that  shore.  It  is  no 
distance — comparatively  speaking;  and  though  consideration 
is  due  to  the  kindness  of  your  proposal,  I  assure  you  that  it 
is  a  mere  matter  of  form." 

Shall  I  ever  forget  how,  in  a  moment,  he  was  the  most 
sanguine  of  men,  looking  on  to  fortune;  or  how  Mrs.  Mic- 
awber presently  discoursed  about  the  habits  of  the  kangaroo! 
Shall  I  ever  recall  that  street  of  Canterbury  on  a  market 
day,  without  recalling  him,  as  he  walked  back  with  us;  ex- 
pressing, in  the  hardy  roving  manner  he  assumed,  the  unset- 
tled habits  of  a  temporary  sojourner  in  the  land;  and  look- 
ing at  the  bullocks,  as  they  came  by,  with  the  eye  of  an 
Australian  farmer. 


©AVID  COPPERFIELD.  75) 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

ANOTHER    RETROSPECT. 

I  MUST  pause  yet  once  again.  O,  my  child-wife,  there  is 
a  figure  in  the  moving  crowd  before  my  memory,  quiet  and 
still,  saying  in  its  innocent  love  and  childish  beauty,  Stop  to 
think  of  me — turn  to  look  upon  the  little  blossom,  as  it  flut- 
ters to  the  ground! 

I  do.  All  else  grows  dim  and  fades  away.  I  am  again 
with  Dora,  in  our  cottage.  I  do  not  know  how  long  she  has 
been  ill.  I  am  so  used  to  it  in  feeling,  that  I  cannot  count 
the  time.  It  is  not  really  long,  in  weeks  or  months;  but,  in 
my  usage  and  experience,  it  is  a  weary,  weary  while. 

'J'hey  have  left  off  telling  me  to  "wait  a  few  days  more." 
I  have  begun  to  fear,  remotely,  that  the  day  may  never 
shine,  when  I  shall  see  my  child-wife  running  in  the  sun- 
light with  her  old  friend  Jip. 

He  is,  as  it  were,  suddenly,  grown  very  old.  It  may  be, 
that  he  misses  in  his  mistress,  something  that  enlivened 
him  and  made  him  younger;  but  he  mopes,  and  his  sight 
is  weak,  and  his  limbs  are  feeble,  and  my  aunt  is  sorry 
that  he  objects  to  her  no  more,  but  creeps  near  her  as  he 
lies  on  Dora's  bed — she  sitting  at  the  bedside — and  mildly 
licks  her  hand. 

Dora  lies  smiling  on  us,  and  is  beautiful,  and  utters  no 
hasty  or  complaining  word.  She  says  that  we  are  very 
good  to  her;  that  her  dear  old  careful  boy  is  tiring  himself 
out,  she  knows;  that  my  aunt  has  no  sleep,  yet  is  always 
wakeful,  active,  and  kind.  Sometimes,  the  little  bird-like 
ladies  come  to  see  her;  and  then  we  talk  about  our  wedding- 
day,  and  all  that  happy  time. 

What  a  strange  rest  and  pause  in  my  life  there  seems  to 
be — and  in  all  life,  within  doors  and  without — when  I  sit  in 
the  quiet,  shaded,  orderly  room,  with  the  blue  eyes  of  my 
child-wife  turned  towards  me,  and  her  little  fingers  twining 
round  my  hand  !  Many  and  many  an  hour  I  sit  thus;  but, 
of  all  those  tin\es  three  times  come  the  freshest  on  my 
mind. 

It  is  morning;  and  Dora,  made  so  trim  by  my  aunt's 
hands,  shows  me  how  her   pretty  hair   will  curl   upon    the 


755  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

pillow  yet,  and  how  long  and  bright  it  is,  and  how  she  likes 
to  have  it  loosely  gathered  in  that  net  she  wears. 

"  Not  that  I  am  vain  of  it,  now,  you  mocking  boy,"  she 
says,  when  I  smile;  "but  because  you  used  to  say  you 
thought  it  so  beautiful;  and  because,  when  I  first  began  to 
think  about  you,  I  used  to  peep  in  the  glass,  and  wonder 
whether  you  would  like  very  much  to  have  a  lock  of  it.  Oh 
what  a  foolish  fellow  you  were,  Doady,  when  I  gave  you  one  !" 

"  That  was  on  the  day  when  you  were  painting  the  flowers 
I  had  given  you,  Dora,  and  when  I  told  you  how  much  in 
love  1  was." 

"  Ah  !  but  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you;'  says  Dora,  "  then, 
how  I  had  cried  over  them,  because  I  believed  you  really 
liked  me  !  When  I  can  run  about  again  as  I  used  to  do, 
Doady,  let  lis  go  and  see  those  places  where  we  were  such  a 
silly  couple,  shall  we  ?  And  take  some  of  the  old  walks  ? 
And  not  forget  poor  papa  T 

"  Yes,  we  will,  and  have  some  happy  days.  So  you  must 
make  haste  to  get  well,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  soon  do  that  I  I  am  so  much  better,  you 
don't  know  !" 

It  is  evening;  and  I  sit  in  the  same  chair,  by  the  same 
bed,  with  the  same  face  turned  towards  me.  We  have  been 
silent,  and  there  is  a  smile  upon  her  face.  I  have  ceased  to 
carry  my  light  burden  up  and  down  stairs  now.  She  lies 
here  all  the  day. 

"  Doady !" 

"  My  dear  Dora  !" 

"  You  won't  think  what  I  am  going  to  say,  unreasonable, 
after  what  you  told  me,  such  a  little  while  ago,  of  Mr.  Wick- 
field's  not  being  well  ?  I  want  to  see  Agnes.  Very  much 
I  want  to  see  her." 

"  I  will  write  to  her,  my  dear." 

"  Will  you  ?" 

"  Directly." 

"  What  a  good,  kind  boy  !  Doady,  take  me  on  your  arm. 
Indeed,  my  dear,  it's  not  a  whim.  It's  not  a  foolish  fancy. 
I  want,  very  much,  indeed,  to  see  her  !" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it.  I  have  only  to  tell  her  so,  and  she  is 
sure  to  come." 

"  You  are  very  lonely  when  you  go  down  stairs,  now  ?" 
Dora  whispers,  with  her  arm  about  my  neck. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  759 

"  How  can  I  be  otherwise,  my  own  love,  when  I  see  your 
empty  chair  ?" 

"  My  empty  chair  !"  She  clings  to  me  for  a  little  while, 
in  silence.  "  And  you  really  miss  me,  Doady  ?"  looking  up, 
and  brightly  smiling.  "  Even  poor  giddy,  stupid  me  ?" 

"  My  heart,  who  is  there  upon  earth  that  I  could  miss  so 
much  ?'' 

"  Oh,  husband  !  I  am  so  glad,  yet  so  sorry  !"  creeping 
closer  to  me,  and  folding  me  in  both  her  arms.  She  laughs, 
and  sobs,  and  then  is  quiet,  and  quite  happy. 

"  Quite  !"  she  says.  "  Only  give  Agnes  my  dear  love, 
and  tell  her  that  I  want  very,  very  much  to  see  her;  and  I 
have  nothing  left  to  wish  for." 

"  Except  to  get  well  again,  Dora." 

"  Ah,  Doady  !  Sometimes  I  think — you  know  I  always 
was  a  silly  little  thing  ! — that  that  will  never  be  !'- 

"  Don't  say  so,  Dora !     Dearest  love,  don't  think  so  !" 

"  I  won't,  if  I  can  help  it,  Doady.  But  I  am  very  happy; 
though  my  dear  boy  is  so  lonely  by  himself,  before  his  child- 
wife's  empty  chair  !" 

It  is  night;  and  I  am  with  her  still.  Agnes  has  arrived; 
has  been  among  us,  for  a  whole  day  and  an  evening.  She, 
my  aunt,  and  I,  have  sat  with  Dora  since  the  morning, 
altogether.  We  have  not  talked  much,  but  Dora  has  been 
perfectly  contented  and  cheerful.     We  are  now  alone. 

Do  I  know,  now,  that  my  child-wife  will  soon  leave  me  ? 
They  have  told  me  so;  they  have  told  me  nothing  new  to 
my  thoughts;  but  I  am  far  from  sure  that  I  have  taken  that 
truth  to  heart.  I  cannot  master  it.  I  have  withdrawn  by 
myself,  many  times  to-day,  to  weep.  I  have  remembered 
Who  wept  for  a  parting  between  the  living  and  the  dead. 
I  have  bethought  me  of  all  that  gracious  and  compassionate 
history.  I  have  tried  to  resign  myself,  and  to  console  my- 
self; and  that,  I  hope,  I  may  have  done  imperfectly;  but 
what  I  cannot  firmly  settle  in  my  mind  is,  that  the  end  will 
absolutely  come.  I  hold  her  hand  in  mine,  I  hold  her  heart 
in  mine,  I  see  her  love  for  me,  alive  in  all  its  strength.  I 
cannot  shut  out  a  pale  lingering  shadow  of  belief  that  she 
will  be  spared. 

"  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you,  Doady.  I  am  going  to  say 
something  I  have  often  thought  of  saying,  lately.  You  won't 
mind  ?"  with  a  gentle  look. 


760  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Mind,  my  darling  ?" 

"  Because  1  don't  know  what  you  will  think,  or  what  you 
may  have  thought  sometimes.  Perhaps  you  have  often 
thought  the  same.  Doady,  dear,  I  am  afraid  I  was  too 
young." 

I  lay  my  face  upon  the  pillow  by  her,  and  she  looks  into 
my  eyes,  and  speaks  very  softly.  Gradually,  as  she  goes  on, 
I  feel,  with  a  stricken  heart,  that  she  is  speaking  of  herself 
as  past. 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear,  I  was  too  young.  I  don't  mean  in 
years  only,  but  in  experience,  and  thoughts,  and  every- 
thing. I  was  such  a  silly  little  creature  !  I  am  afraid  it 
would  have  been  better,  if  we  had  only  loved  each  other 
as  a  boy  and  girl,  and  forgotten  it.  I  have  begun  to 
think  I  was  not  fit  to  be  a  wife." 

I  try  to  stay  my  tears,  and  to  reply,  "  Oh,  Dora,  love,  as 
fit  as  I  to  be  a  husband!" 

"  I  don't  know,"  with  the  old  shake  of  her  curls.  "  Per- 
haps! But,  if  I  had  been  more  fit  to  be  married,  I  might 
have  made  you  more  so,  too.  Besides  you  are  very  clever, 
and  I  never  was." 

"  We  have  been  very  happy,  my  sweet  Dora." 

"  I  was  very  happy,  very.  But,  as  years  went  on,  my  dear 
boy  would  have  wearied  of  his  child-wife.  She  would  have 
been  less  and  less  a  companion  for  him.  He  would  have 
been  more  and  more  sensible  of  what  was  wanting  in  his 
home.     She  wouldn't  have  improved.     It  is  better  as  it  is." 

"  Oh,  Dora,  dearest,  dearest,  do  not  speak  to  me  so.  Every 
word  seems  a  reproach!" 

"  No,  not  a  syllable!"  she  answers,  kissing  me.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  you  never  deserved  it,  and  I  loved  you  far  too  well,  to 
say  a  reproachful  word  to  you,  in  earnest — it  was  all  the 
merit  I  had,  except  being  pretty — or  you  thought  me  so. 
Is  it  lonely  down  stairs,  Doady?" 

"Very!  Very!" 

"  Don't  cry!     Is  my  chair  there?" 

"  In  its  old  place." 

"  Oh,  how  my  poor  boy  cries!  Hush,  hush!  Now,  make 
me  one  promise.  I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes.  When  you  go 
downstairs,  tell  Agnes  so,  and  send  her  up  tome;  and  while 
I  speak  to  her,  let  no  one  come — not  even  aunt.  I  want  to 
speak  to  Agnes  by  herself.  I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes  quite 
alone.'* 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  761 

I  promise  that  she  shall,  immediately;  but  I  cannot  leave 
her,  for  my  grief. 

''  I  said  that  it  was  better  as  it  is!"  she  whispers  as  she 
holds  me  in  her  arms.  **  Oh,  Doady,  after  more  years,  you 
never  could  have  loved  your  child-wife  better  than  you  do; 
and  after  more  years,  she  would  so  have  tried  and  disap- 
pointed you,  that  you  might  not  have  been  able  to  love  her 
half  so  well!  I  know  I  was  too  young  and  foolish.  It  is 
much  better  as  it  is!" 

Agnes  is  down-stairs,  when  I  go  into  the  parlor;  and  I  give 
her  the  message.     She  disappears,  leaving  me  alone  with  Jip. 

His  Chinese  house  is  by  the  fire;  and  he  lies  within  it,  on 
his  bed  of  flannel,  querulously  trying  to  sleep.  The  bright 
moon  is  high  and  clear.  As  I  look  out  on  the  night,  my 
tears  fall  fast,  and  my  undisciplined  heart  is  chastened 
heavily — heavily. 

I  sit  down  by  the  fire,  thinking  with  a  blind  remorse  of 
all  those  secret  feelings  I  have  nourished  since  my  marriage. 
I  think  of  every  little  trifle  between  me  and  Dora,  and  feel 
the  truth,  that  trifles  make  the  sum  of  life.  Ever  rising 
from  the  sea  of  my  remembrance,  is  the  image  of  the  dear 
child  as  I  knew  her  first,  graced  by  my  young  love,  and  by 
her  own,  with  every  fascination  wherein  such  love  is  rich. 
Would  it,  indeed,  have  been  better  if  we  had  loved  each 
other  as  a  boy  and  girl,  and  forgotten  it?  Undisciplined 
heart,  reply! 

How  the  time  wears,  I  know  not;  until  I  am  recalled  by 
my  child-wife's  old  companion.  More  restless  than  he  was, 
he  crawls  out  of  his  house,  and  looks  at  me,  and  wanders  to 
the  door,  and  whines  to  go  up-stairs. 

"  Not  to-night,  Jip!     Not  to  night!" 

He  comes  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  and  lifts 
his  dim  eyes  to  my  face. 

**0h,  Jip!     It  may  be,  never  again!" 

He  lies  down  at  my  feet,  stretches  himself  out  as  if  to 
sleep,  and  with  a  plaintive  cry,  is  dead. 

"O  Agnes!     Look,  look  here!" 

— That  face,  so  full  of  pity  and  of  grief,  that  rain  of  tears, 
that  awful  mute  appeal  to  me,  that  solemn  hand  upraised 
toward  Heaven! 

"  Agnes?" 

It  is  over.  Darkness  comes  before  my  eyes;  and,  for  a 
time,  all  things  are  blotted  out  of  my  remembrance^ 


762  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

MR.  micawber's  transactions. 

This  is  not  the  time  at  which  I  am  to  enter  on  the  state 
of  my  mind  beneath  its  load  of  sorrow.  I  came  to  think 
that  the  Future  was  walled  up  before  me,  that  the  energy 
and  action  of  my  life  were  at  an  end,  that  I  never  could  find 
any  refuge  but  in  the  grave.  I  came  to  think  so,  I  say,  but 
not  in  the  first  shock  of  my  grief.  It  slowly  grew  to  that. 
If  the  events  I  go  on  to  relate,  had  not  thickened  around  me, 
in  the  beginning  to  confuse,  and  in  the  end  to  augment,  my 
aflliction,  it  is  possible  (though  I  think  not  probable)  that  I 
might  have  fallen  at  once  into  this  condition.  As  it  was,  an 
interval  occurred  before  I  fully  knew  my  own  distress;  an 
interval,  in  which  I  even  supposed  that  its  sharpest  pangs 
were  past;  and  when  my  mind  could  soothe  itself  by  rest- 
ing on  all  that  was  most  innocent  and  beautiful,  in  the  ten- 
der story  that  was  closed  for  ever. 

When  it  was  first  proposed  that  I  should  go  abroad,  or 
how  it  came  to  be  agreed  among  us  that  I  was  to  seek  the 
restoration  of  my  peace  in  change  and  travel,  I  do  not,  even 
now,  distinctly  know.  The  spirit  of  Agnes  so  pervaded  all 
we  thought,  and  said,  and  did,  in  that  time  of  sorrow,  that  I 
assume  I  may  refer  the  project  to  her  influence.  But  her 
influence  was  so  quiet  that  I  know  no  more. 

And  now,  indeed,  I  began  to  think  that  in  my  old  asso- 
ciation of  her  with  the  stained-glass  window  in  the  church, 
a  prophetic  foreshadowing  of  what  she  would  be  to  me,  in 
the  calamity  that  was  to  happen  in  the  fullness  of  time,  had 
found  a  way  into  my  mind.  In  all  that  sorrow,  from  the 
moment  never  to  be  forgotten,  when  she  stood  before  me 
with  her  upraised  hand,  she  was  like  a  sacred  presence  in  my 
lonely  house.  When  the  Angel  of  Death  alighted  there,  my 
child-wife  fell  asleep — they  told  me  so  when  I  could  bear  to 
hear  it — on  her  bosom,  with  a  smile.  From  my  swoon,  I  first 
awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  her  compassionate  tears,  her 
words  of  hope  and  peace,  her  gentle  face  bending  down  as 
from  a  purer  region  nearer  Heaven,  over  my  undisciplined 
heart,  and  softening  its  pain. 

Let  me  go  on. 

I  was  to  go  abroad.     That  seemed  to  have  been  deter- 


PAVID  COPPERFIELD.  763 

mined  among  us  from  the  first.  The  ground  now  covering 
all  that  could  perish  of  my  departed  wife,  I  waited  only  for 
what  Mr.  Micawber  called  the  "  final  pulverization  of  Heep," 
and  for  the  departure  of  the  emigrants. 

At  the  request  of  Traddles,  most  affectionate  and  devoted 
of  friends  in  my  trouble,  we  returned  to  Canterbury:  I  mean 
my  aunt,  Agnes,  and  I.  We  proceeded  by  appointment 
straight  to  Mr.  Micawber's  house;  where,  and  at  Mr.  Wick- 
field's,  my  friend  had  been  laboring  ever  since  our  explosive 
meeting.  When  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  saw  me  come  in,  in 
my  black  clothes,  she  was  sensibly  affected.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  good  in  Mrs.  Micawber's  heart,  which  had  not 
been  dunned  out  of  it  in  all  those  many  years. 

"  Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,"  was  my  aunt's  first  salu- 
tation after  we  were  seated.  "  Pray,  have  you  thought  about 
that  emigration  proposal  of  mine  ?" 

"  My  dear  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '*  perhaps  I 
cannot  better  express  the  conclusion  at  which  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber, your  humble  servant,  and  I  may  add  our  children,  have 
jointly  and  severally  arrived,  than  by  borrowing  the  lan- 
guage of  an  illustrious  poet,  to  reply  that  our  Boat  is  on  the 
shore,  and  our  Bark  is  on  the  sea." 

"  That's  right,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  augur  all  sorts  of  good 
from  your  sensible  decision." 

*'  Madam,  you  do  us  a  great  deal  of  honor,"  he  rejoined. 
He  then  referred  to  a  memorandum.  **  With  respect  to  the 
pecuniary  assistance  enabling  us  to  launch  our  frail  canoe  on 
the  ocean  of  enterprise,  I  have  reconsidered  that  important 
business-point;  and  would  beg  to  propose  my  notes  of 
hand — drawn,  it  is  needless  to  stipulate,  on  stamps  of  the 
amounts  respectively  required  by  the  various  Acts  of  Par- 
liament applying  to  such  securities — at  eighteen,  twenty- 
four,  and  thirty  months.  The  proposition  I  originally  sub- 
mitted, was  twelve,  eighteen,  and  twenty-four;  but  I  am 
apprehensive  that  such  an  arrangement  might  not  allow  suf- 
ficient time  for  the  requisite  amount  of — Something — to  turn 
up.  We  might  not,"  said  Mr.  Micawber^  looking  round  the 
room  as  if  it  represented  several  hundred  acres  of  highly- 
cultivated  land,  "  on  the  first  responsibility  becoming  due, 
have  been  successful  in  our  harvest,  or  we  might  not  have 
got  our  harvest  in.  Labor,  I  believe,  is  sometimes  difficult 
to  obtain  in  that  portion  of  our  colonial  possessions  where 
it  will  be  our  lot  to  combat  with  the  teeming  soil.'* 


764  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Arrange  it  in  any  way  you  please,  sir,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Madam,"  he  replied,  "  Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself  are 
deeply  sensible  of  the  very  considerate  kindness  of  our 
friends  and  patrons.  What  I  wish  is,  to  be  perfectly  busi- 
ness-like, and  perfectly  punctual.  Turning  over,  as  we  are 
about  to  turn  over,  an  entirely  new  leaf;  and  falling  back, 
as  we  are  now  in  the  act  of  falling  back,  for  a  spring  of  no 
common  magnitude;  it  is  important  to  my  sense  of  self-res- 
pect, besides  being  an  example  to  my  son,  that  these  ar- 
rangements should  be  concluded  as  between  man  and  man." 

I  don't  know  that  Mr.  Micawber  attached  any  meaning  to 
this  last  phrase;  I  don't  know  that  anybody  ever  does,  or 
did;  but  he  appeared  to  relish  it  uncommonly,  and  repeated, 
with  an  impressive  cough,  "  as  between  man  and  man." 

"  I  propose,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  Bills — a  convenience 
to  the  mercantile  world,  for  which,  I  believe,  we  are  origin- 
ally indebted  to  the  Jews,  who  appear  to  me  to  have  had  a 
devilish  deal  too  much  to  do  with  them  ever  since — because 
they  are  negotiable.  But  if  a  Bond,  or  any  other  descrip- 
tion of  security,  would  be  preferred,  I  should  be  happy  to 
execute  any  such  instrument.     As  between  man  and  man." 

My  aunt  observed,  that  in  a  case  where  both  parties  were 
willing  to  agree  to  anything,  she  took  it  for  granted  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  settling  this  point.  Mr.  Micawber 
was  of  her  opinion. 

"  In  reference  to  our  domestic  preparations,  madam,"  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  pride,  "  for  meeting  the  destiny  to 
which  we  are  now  understood  to  be  self-devoted,  I  beg  to 
report  them.  My  eldest  daughter  attends  at  five  every 
morning  in  a  neighboring  establishment,  to  acquire  the  pro- 
cess— if  process  it  may  be  called — of  milking  cows.  My 
younger  children  are  instructed  to  observe,  as  closely  as 
circumstances  will  permit,  the  habits  of  the  pigs  and  poultry 
maintained  in  the  poorer  parts  of  this  city;  a  pursuit  from 
which  they  have,  on  two  occasions,  been  brought  home, 
within  an  inch  of  being  run  over.  I  have  myself  directed 
some  attention,  during  the  past  week,  to  the  art  of  baking; 
and  my  son  Wilkins  has  issued  forth  with  a  walking-stick 
and  driven  cattle,  when  permitted  by  the  rugged  hirelings 
who  had  them  in  charge,  to  render  any  voluntary  service  in 
that  direction — which  I  regret  to  say,  for  the  credit  of  our 
nature,  was  not  often;  he  being  generally  warned,-  with  im- 
precations, to  desist." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  76b 

"  All  very  right,  indeed,"  said  my  aunt,  encouragingly. 
"  Mrs.  Micawber  has  been  very  busy,  too,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her 
business-like  air,  "  I  am  free  to  confess,  that  I  have  not  been 
actively  engaged  in  pursuits  immediately  connected  with 
cultivation  or  with  stock,  though  well  aware  that  both  will 
claim  my  attention  on  a  foreign  shore.  Such  opportunities 
as  I  have  been  enabled  to  alienate  from  my  domestic  duties, 
I  have  devoted  to  corresponding  at  some  length  with  my 
family.  For  I  own  it  seems  to  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copper- 
field,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  always  fell  back  on  me,  I 
suppose  from  old  habit,  to  whomsoever  else  she  might  ad- 
dress her  discourse  at  starting,  "  that  the  time  is  come  when 
the  past  should  be  buried  in  oblivion;  when  my  family 
should  take  Mr.  Micawber  by  the  hand,  and  Mr.  Micawber 
should  take  my  family  by  the  hand;  when  the  lion  should 
lie  down  with  the  lamb,  and  my  family  be  on  terms  with  Mr. 
Micawber." 

I  said  I  thought  so  too. 

"  This,  at  least,  is  the  light,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  in  which  /  view  the  subject.  When  I 
lived  at  home  with  my  papa  and  mamma,  my  papa  was  ac- 
customed to  ask,  when  any  point  was  under  discussion  in 
our  limited  circle,  *  In  what  light  does  my  Emma  view  the 
subject?'  That  my  papa  was  too  partial,  I  know;  still,  on 
such  a  point  as  the  frigid  coldness  which  has  ever  subsisted 
between  Mr.  Micawber  and  my  family,  I  necessarily  have 
formed  an  opinion,  delusive  though  it  may  be." 

"  No  doubt.     Of  course  you  have,  ma'am,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Precisely  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  Now,  I  may  be 
wrong  in  my  conclusions;  it  is  very  ikely  that  I  am;  but 
my  individual  impression  is,  that  the  gulf  between  my  fam- 
ily and  Mr.  Micawber  may  be  traced  to  an  apprehension,  on 
the  part  of  my  family,  that  Mr.  Micawber  would  require 
pecuniary  accommodations.  I  cannot  help  thinking,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  with  an  air  of  deep  sagacity,  "  that  there  are 
members  of  my  family  who  have  been  apprehensive  that  Mr. 
Micawber  would  solicit  them  for  their  names — I  do  not 
mean  to  be  conferred  in  baptism  upon  our  children,  but  to 
be  inscribed  on  Bills  of  Exchange,  and  negotiated  in  the 
Money  Market." 

The  look  of  penetration  with  which  Mrs.  Micawber  an- 
nounced this  discovery,  as  if  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  it 


7(56  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

before,  seemed  rather  to  astonish  my  aunt,  who  abruptly  re- 
plied, "  Well,  ma'am,  upon  the  whole,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
you  were  right  !" 

"  Mr.  Micawber  being  now  on  the  eve  of  casting  off  the 
pecuniary  shackles  that  have  so  long  enthralled  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  and  of  commencing  a  new  career  in  a  coun- 
try where  there  is  sufficient  range  for  his  abilities, — which, 
in  my  opinion,  is  exceedingly  important ;  Mr.  Micawber's 
abilities  peculiarly  require  space, — it  seems  to  me  that  my 
family  should  signalize  the  occasion  by  coming  forward 
What  I  could  wish  to  see,  would  be  a  meeting  between  Mr. 
Micawber  and  my  family  at  a  festive  entertainment,  to  be 
given  at  my  family's  expense;  where  Mr.  Micawber's  health 
and  prosperity  being  proposed  by  some  leading  member  of 
my  family,  Mr.  Micawber  might  have  an  opportunity  of  de- 
veloping his  views." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  heat,  "  it  may 
be  better  for  me  to  state  distinctly,  at  once,  that  if  I  were 
to  develop  my  views  to  that  assembled  group,  they  would 
possibly  be  found  of  an  offensive  nature:  my  impression  be- 
ing that  your  family  are,  in  the  aggregate,  impertinent  Snobs; 
and  in  detail,  unmitigated  Ruffians." 

"Micawber,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  shaking  her  head,  "no! 
You  have  never  understood  them,and  they  have  never  under- 
stood you." 

Mr.  Micawber  coughed. 

"They  have  never  understood  you,  Micawber,"  said  his 
wife.  '*  They  may  be  incapable  of  it.  If  so,  that  is  their 
misfortune.     I  can  pity  their  misfortune." 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,  my  dear  Emma,"  said  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, relenting,  "  to  have  been  betrayed  into  any  expressions 
that  might,  even  remotely,  have  the  appearance  of  being 
strong  expressions.  All  I  would  say  is,  that  I  can  go  abroad 
without  your  family  coming  forward  to  favor  me, — in  short, 
with  a  parting  shove  of  their  cold  shoulders,  and  that,  upon 
the  whole,  I  would  rather  leave  England  with  such  impetus 
as  I  possess,  than  derive  any  acceleration  of  it  from  that  quar- 
ter. At  the  same  time,  my  dear,  if  they  should  condescend 
to  reply  to  your  communications — which  our  joint  experience 
renders  most  improbable — far  be  it  from  me  to  be  a  barrier 
to  your  wishes." 

This  matter  being  thus  amicably  settled,  Mr.  Micawber 
gave  Mrs,  Micawber  his  arm,  and  glancing  at  the  heap  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  767 

books  and  papers  lying  before  Traddles  on  the  table,  said 
they  would  leave  us  to  ourselves;  which  they  ceremoniously 
did. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  when  they  were  gone,  and  looking  at  me  with  an 
affection  that  made  his  eyes  red,  and  his  hair  all  kinds  of 
shapes,  **  I  don't  make  any  excuse  for  troubling  you  with 
business,  because  I  know  you  are  deeply  interested  in  it,  and 
it  may  divert  your  thoughts.  My  dear  boy,  I  hope  you  are 
not  worn  out  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  myself/'  said  I,  after  a  pause.  "  We  have  more 
cause  to  think  of  my  aunt  than  any  one.  You  know  how 
much  she  has  done." 

"  Surely,  surely,"  answered  Traddles.  "  Who  can  forget 
it  !" 

"  But  even  that  is  not  all,"  said  I.  "  During  the  last  fort- 
night, some  new  trouble  has  vexed  her;  and  she  has  been  in 
and  out  of  London  every  day.  Several  times  she  has  gone 
out  early,  and  been  absent  till  evening.  Last  night,  Traddles, 
with  this  journey  before  her,  it  was  almost  midnight  before 
she  came  home.  You  know  what  her  consideration  for 
others  is.  She  will  not  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  distress 
her." 

My  aunt  very  pale,  and  with  deep  lines  in  her  face,  sat 
immovable  until  I  had  finished;  when  some  stray  tears 
found  their  way  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  put  her  hand  on 
mine. 

"  It's  nothing,  Trot;  it's  nothing.  There  will  be  no  more 
of  it.  You  shall  know  by-and-by.  Now,  Agnes,  my  dear, 
let  us  attend  to  these  affairs." 

"  I  must  do  Mr.  Micawber  the  justice  to  say,"  Traddles 
began,  "  that  although  he  would  appear  not  to  have  worked 
to  any  good  account  for  himself,  he  is  a  most  untiring  man 
when  he  works  for  other  people.  I  never  saw  such  a  fel- 
low. If  he  always  goes  on  in  the  same  way,  he  must  be, 
virtually,  about  two  hundred  years  old  at  present.  The 
heat  into  which  he  has  been  continually  putting  himself, 
and  the  distracted  and  impetuous  manner  in  which  he  has 
been  diving,  day  and  night,  among  papers  and  books;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  immense  number  of  letters  he  has  written 
me  between  this  house  and  Mr.  Wickfield's,  and  often  across 
the  table  when  he  has  been  sitting  opposite,  and  might  much 
more  easily  have  spoken;  is  quite  extraordinary." 


765  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

"Letters!"  cried  my  aunt.  "I  believe  he  dreams  in 
letters!" 

"  There's  Mr.  Dick,  too,"  said  Traddles,  "  has  been  doing 
wonders!  As  soon  as  he  was  released  from  overlooking 
Uriah  Heep,  whom  he  kept  in  such  charge  as  /  never  saw 
exceeded,  he  began  to  devote  himself  to  Mr.  Wickfield. 
And  really  his  anxiety  to  be  of  use  in  the  investigations  we 
have  been  making,  and  his  real  usefulness  in  extracting  and 
copying,  and  fetching,  and  carrying,  have  been  quite  stimu- 
lating to  us." 

"  Dick  is  a  very  remarkable  man,"  exclaimed  my  aunt, 
"and  I  always  said  he  was.     Trot,  you  know  it." 

"  I  am  happy  to  say,  Miss  Wickfield,"  pursued  Traddles, 
at  once  with  great  delicacy  and  with  great  earnestness,  "  that 
in  your  absence  Mr.  Wickfield  has  considerably  improved. 
S.elieved  of  the  incubus  that  had  fastened  upon  him  for  so 
long  a  time,  and  of  the  dreadful  apprehensions  under  which 
he  had  lived,  he  is  hardly  the  same  person.  At  times,  even 
his  impaired  power  of  concentrating  his  memory  and  atten- 
tion on  particular  points  of  business,  has  recovered  itself 
very  much;  and  he  has  been  able  to  assist  us  in  making 
some  things  clear,  that  we  should  have  found  very  difficult 
indeed,  if  not  hopeless,  without  him.  But,  what  I  have  to 
do  is  to  come  to  results;  which  are  short  enough;  not  to 
gossip  on  all  the  hopeful  circumstances  I  have  observed,  or 
I  shall  never  have  done." 

His  natural  manner  and  agreeable  simplicity  made  it  trans- 
parent that  he  said  this  to  put  us  in  good  heart,  and  to  en- 
able Agnes  to  hear  her  father  mentioned  with  greater  confi- 
dence; but  it  was  not  the  less  pleasant  for  that. 

"  Now,  let  me  see,"  said  Traddles,  looking  among  the 
papers  on  the  table.  "  Having  counted  our  funds,  and  re- 
duced to  order  a  great  mass  of  unintentional  confusion  in 
the  first  place,  and  of  willful  confusion  and  falsification  in 
the  second,  we  take  it  to  be  clear  that  Mr.  Wickfield  might 
now  wind  up  his  business,  and  his  agency-trust,  and  exhibit 
no  deficiency  or  defalcation  whatever." 

"  Oh,  thank  Heaven!"  cried  Agnes,  fervently. 

"  But,"  said  Traddles,  "  the  surplus  that  would  be  left  as 
his  means  of  support — and  I  suppose  the  house  to  be  sold, 
even  in  saying  this — would  be  so  small,  not  exceeding  in  all 
probability  some  hundreds  of  pounds,  that  perhaps.  Miss 
Wickfield,  it  would  be  best  to  consider  whether  he  might  not 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  769 

retain  his  agency  of  the  estate  to  which  he  has  so  long  been 
receiver.  His  friends  might  advise  him,  you  know;  now  he 
is  free.     You  yourself,  Miss  Wickfield — Copperfield — I — " 

"  I  have  considered  it,  Trotwood,"  said  Agnes,  looking  to 
me,  "  and  I  feel  that  it  ought  not  to  be,  and  must  not  be; 
even  on  the  recommendation  of  a  friend  to  whom  I  am  so 
grateful,  and  owe  so  much." 

"  I  will  not  say  that  I  recommend  it,"  observed  Traddles. 
"  I  think  it  right  to  suggest  it.     No  more." 

"I  am  happy  to  hear  you  say  so,"  answered  Agnes,  stead- 
ily, "  for  it  gives  me  hope,  almost  assurance,  that  we  think 
alike.  Dear  Mr.  Traddles,  and  dear  Trotwood,  papa  once 
free  with  honor,  what  could  I  wish  for  ?  I  have  always  as- 
pired, if  I  could  have  released  him  from  the  toils  in  which 
he  was  held,  to  render  back  some  little  portion  of  the  love 
and  care  I  owe  him,  and  to  devote  my  life  to  him.  It  has 
been  for  years  the  utmost  height  of  my  hopes.  To  take 
our  future  on  myself,  will  be  the  next  great  happiness — the 
next  to  his  release  from  all  trust  and  responsibility — that  I 
can  know." 

"  Have  you  thought  how,  Agnes  ?" 

*'  Often  !  I  am  not  afraid,  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  certain 
of  success.  So  many  people  know  me  here,  and  think  kindly 
of  me,  that  I  am  certain.  Don't  mistrust  me.  Our  wants 
are  not  many.  If  I  rent  the  dear  old  house,  and  keep  a 
school,  I  shall  be  useful  and  happy." 

The  calm  fervor  of  her  cheerful  voice  brought  back  so 
vividly,  first  the  dear  old  house  itself,  and  then  my  solitary 
home,  that  my  heart  was  too  full  of  speech.  Traddles  pre- 
tended for  a  little  while  to  be  busily  looking  among  the 
papers. 

*'  Next,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Traddles,  "  that  property 
of  yours." 

*'Well,  sir,"  sighed  my  aunt.  "All  I  have  got  to  say 
about  it  is,  that  if  it's  gone,  I  can  bear  it ;  and  if  it's  not 
gone,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  it  back." 

"  It  was  originally,  I  think,  eight  thousand  pounds.  Con- 
sols ?  "  said  Traddles. 

"  Right !  "  replied  my  aunt. 

'*  I  can't  account  for  more  than  five,"  said  Traddles,  with 
an  air  of  perplexity. 

"  — thousand,  do  you  mean  ?  "  inquired  my  aunt  with  un- 
common composure,  "  or  pounds  ? " 


770  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"Five  thousand  pounds,"  said  Trad  dies. 

"  It  was  all  there  was,"  returned  my  aunt.  "  I  sold  three, 
myself.  One,  I  paid  for  your  articles,  Trot,  my  dear  ;  and 
the  other  two  I  have  by  me.  When  I  lost  the  rest,  J 
thought  it  wise  to  say  nothing  about  that  sum,  but  to  keep 
it  secretly  for  a  rainy  day.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you  would 
come  out  of  the  trial.  Trot ;  and  you  came  out  nobly — per- 
severing, self-reliant,  self-denying !  So  did  Dick.  Don't 
speak  to  me,  for  I  find  my  nerves  a  little  shaken  !  " 

Nobody  would  have  thought  so,  to  see  her  sitting  upright, 
with  her  arms  folded  ;  but  she  had  wonderful  self-command. 

"  Then  I  am  delighted  to  say,"  cried  Traddles,  beaming 
with  joy,  **  that  we  have  recovered  the  whole  money  !  " 

"  Don't  congratulate  me,  anybody  !  "  exclaimed  my  aunt. 
"  How  so,  sir  ? " 

"  You  believed  it  had  been  misappropriated  by  Mr.  Wick- 
field  ?"  said  Traddles. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  my  aunt,  "and  was  therefore 
easily  silenced.     Agnes,  not  a  word  !  " 

"And,  indeed,"  said  Traddles,  "it  was  sold,  by  virtue  of 
the  power  of  management  he  held  from  you  ;  but  I  needn't 
say  by  whom  sold,  or  on  whose  actual  signature.  It  was 
afterwards  pretended  to  Mr.  Wickfield,  by  that  rascal, — 
and  proved,  too,  by  figures, — that  he  had  possessed  himself 
of  the  money  (on  general  instructions,  he  said)  to  keep 
other  deficiencies  and  difficulties  from  the  light.  Mr.  Wick- 
field, being  so  weak  and  helpless  in  his  hands  as  to  pay  you, 
afterwards,  several  sums  of  interest  on  a  pretended  prin- 
cipal which  he  knew  did  not  exist,  made  himself,  unhappily, 
a  party  to  the  fraud." 

"And  at  last  took  the  blame  upon  himself,"  added  my 
aunt ;  "  and  wrote  me  a  mad  letter,  charging  himself  with 
robbery,  and  wrong  unheard  of.  Upon  which  I  paid  him  a 
visit  early  one  morning,  called  for  a  candle,  burnt  the  letter, 
and  told  him  if  he  ever  could  right  me  and  himself,  to  do 
it ;  and  if  he  couldn't,  to  keep  his  own  counsel  for  his 
daughter's  sake.  If  anybody  speaks  to  me,  I'll  leave  the 
house  ! " 

We  all  remained  quiet ;  Agnes  covering  her  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  my  aunt,  after  a  pause, 
"  and  you  have  really  extorted  the  money  back  from  him  ?" 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,"  returned  Traddles,  "  Mr.  Micawber 
had  so  completely  hemmed  him  in,  and  was  always  ready 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  771 

with  so  many  new  points  if  an  old  one  failed,  that  he  couJd 
not  escape  from  us.  A  most  remarkable  circumstance  is, 
that  I  really  don't  think  he  grasped  this  sum  even  so  much 
for  the  gratification  of  his  avarice,  which  was  inordinate,  as 
in  the  hatred  he  felt  for  Copperfield.  He  said  so  to  me, 
plainly.  He  said  he  would  even  have  spent  as  much  to 
balk  or  injure  Copperfield." 

"  Ha  !"  said  my  aunt,  knitting  her  brows  thoughtfully, 
and  glancing  at  Agnes.     "  And  what's  become  of  him  }" 

**I  don't  know.  He  left  here,"  said  Traddles,  "with  his 
mother,  who  had  been  clamoring,  and  beseeching,  and  dis- 
closing, the  whole  time.  They  went  away  by  one  of  the 
London  night  coaches,  and  I  know  no  more  about  him  ;  ex- 
cept that  his  malevolence  to  me  at  parting  was  audacious. 
He  seemed  to  consider  himself  hardly  less  indebted  to  me, 
than  to  Mr.  Micawber  ;  which  I  consider  (as  I  told  him) 
quite  a  compliment." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  has  any  money,  Traddles  ?"  I  asked. 

*'0h  dear,  yes,  I  should  think  so,"  he  replied,  shaking 
his  head,  seriously.  "  I  should  say  he  must  have  pocketed 
a  good  deal,  in  one  way  or  other.  But,  I  think  you  would 
find,  Copperfield,  if  you  had  an  opportunity  of  observing 
his  course,  that  money  would  never  keep  that  man  out  of  mis- 
chief. He  is  such  an  incarnate  hypocrite,  that  whatever  object 
he  pursues,  he  must  pursue  crookedly.  It's  his  only  compen- 
sation for  the  outward  restraints  he  puts  upon  himself.  Always 
creeping  along  the  ground  to  some  small  end  or  other,  he 
will  always  magnify  every  object  in  the  way  ;  and  conse- 
quently will  hate  and  suspect  everybody  that  comes,  in  the 
most  innocent  manner,  between  him  and  it.  So  the  crooked 
course  will  become  crookeder,  at  any  moment,  for  the  least 
reason,  or  for  none.  It's  only  necessary  to  consider  his 
history  here,"  said  Traddles,  "  to  know  that." 

"  He's  a  monster  of  meanness  !"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Really  I  don't  know  about  that,"  observed  Traddles, 
thoughtfully.  "  Many  people  can  be  very  mean,  when  they 
give  their  minds  to  it." 

**  And,  now,  touching  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Traddles,  cheerfully.  "  I  must,  once 
more,  give  Mr.  Micawber  high  praise.  But  for  his  having 
been  so  patient  and  persevering  for  so  long  a  time,  we  never 
could  have  hoped  to  do  anything  worth  speaking  of.  And 
I  think  we  ought  to  consider  that  Mr.  Micawber  did  right 


772  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

for  right's  sake,  when  we  reflect  what  terms  he  might  have 
made  with  Uriah  Heep  himself,  for  his  silence." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  I. 

"  Now  what  would  you  give  him  ?"  inquired  my  aunt. 

"  Oh  !  Before  you  come  to  that,"  said  Traddles,  a  little 
disconcerted,  "  I  am  afraid  I  thought  it  discreet  to  omit 
(not  being  able  to  carry  everything  before  me)  two  points, 
in  making  this  lawless  adjustment — for  it's  perfectly  law- 
less from  beginning  to  end — of  a  difficult  affair.  Those  I. 
O.  U.'s,  and  so  forth,  which  Mr.  Micawber  gave  him  for  the 
advances  he  had — " 

**  Well  !  They  must  be  paid,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  when  they  may  be  proceeded  on, 
or  where  they  are,"  rejoined  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes; 
"  and  I  anticipate  that,  between  this  time  and  his  departure, 
Mr.  Micawber  will  be  constantly  arrested,  or  taken  in 
execution." 

**  Then  he  must  be  constantly  set  free  again,  and  taken 
out  of  execution,"  said  my  aunt.  *'  What's  the  amount 
altogether  ?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Micawber  has  entered  the  transactions — he 
calls  them  transactions — with  great  form,  in  a  book,"  re- 
joined Traddles,  smiling;  "  and  he  makes  the  amount  a 
hundred  and  three  pounds,  five." 

"  Now  what  shall  we  give  him,  that  sum  included  ?'*"  said 
my  aunt.  "  Agnes,  my  dear,  you  and  I  can  talk  about  div- 
ision of  it  afterwards.  What  should  it  be  ?  Five  hundred 
pounds  ?" 

Upon  this,  Traddles  and  I  both  struck  in  at  once.  We 
both  recommended  a  small  sum  in  money,  and  the  pay- 
ment, without  stipulation  to  Mr.  Micawber,  of  the  Uriah 
claims  as  they  came  in.  We  proposed  that  the  family  should 
have  their  passage  and  their  outfit,  and  a  hundred  pounds; 
and  that  Mr.  Micawber's  arrangement  for  the  repayment  of 
the  advances  should  be  gravely  entered  into,  as  it  might  be 
wholesome  for  him  to  suppose  himself  under  that  responsi- 
bility. To  this,  I  added  the  suggestion,  that  I  should  give 
some  explanation  of  his  character  and  history  to  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty,  who  I  knew  could  be  relied  on;  and  that  to  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty  should  be  quietly  entrusted  the  discretion  of  advanc- 
ing another  hundred.  I  further  proposed  to  interest  Mr. 
Micawber  in  Mr.  Peggotty,  by  confiding  so  much  of  Mr. 
Peggotty's  story  to  him  as  I  might  feel  justified  in  relating,, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  773 

or  might  think  expedient;  and  to  endeavor  to  bring  each  of 
them  to  bear  upon  the  other,  for  the  common  advantage.  We 
all  entered  warmly  into  these  views;  and  I  may  mention  at 
once,  that  the  principals  themselves  did  so,  shortly  after- 
wards, with  perfect  good  will  and  harmony. 

Seeing  that  Traddles  now  glanced  anxiously  at  my  aunt 
again,  1  reminded  him  of  the  second  and  last  point  to  which 
he  had  adverted. 

"  You  and  your  aunt  will  excuse  me,  Copperfield,  if  I 
touch  upon  a  painful  theme,  as  I  greatly  fear  I  shall,"  said 
Traddles,  hesitating;  "but  I  think  it  necessary  to  bring  it 
to  your  recollection.  On  the  day  of  Mr.  Micawber's  mem- 
orable denunciation,  a  threatening  allusion  was  made  by 
Uriah  Heep  to  your  aunt's — husband." 

My  aunt,  retaining  her  stiff  position,  and  apparent  com- 
posure, assented  with  a  nod. 

"  Perhaps,"  observed  Traddles,  "  it  was  mere  purposeless 
impertinence  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  my  aunt. 

"  There  was — pardon  me — really  such  a  person,  and  at  all 
in  his  power  ?"  hinted  Traddles. 

"  Yes,  my  good  friend,"  said  my  aunt. 

Traddles,  with  a  perceptible  lengthening  of  his  face,  ex- 
plained that  he  had  not  been  able  to  approach  this  subject; 
that  it  had  shared  the  fate  of  Mr.  Micawber's  liabilities,  in 
not  being  comprehended  in  the  terms  he  had  made;  that  we 
were  no  longer  of  any  authority  with  Uriah  Heep;  and  that 
if  he  could  do  us,  or  any  of  us,  any  injury  or  annoyance,  no 
doubt  he  would. 

My  aunt  remained  quiet;  until  again  some  stray  tears 
found  their  way  to  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said.  "  It  was  very  thoughtful 
to  mention  it." 

"  Can  I — or  Copperfield — do  anything?"  asked  Traddles, 
gently. 

**  Nothing,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  thank  you  many  times. 
Trot,  my  dear,  a  vain  threat  !  Let  us  have  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Micawber  back.  And  don't  any  of  you  speak  to  me  !" 
With  that,  she  smoothed  her  dress,  and  sat,  with  her  upright 
carriage,  looking  at  the  door. 

"  Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  !"  said  my  aunt,  when 
they  entered,  "we  have  been  discussing  your  emigration, 
with  many    apologies  to  you  for  keeping  you  out  of   the 


774  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

room  so  long;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  arrangements  we  pro- 
pose." 

These  she  explained,  to  the  unbounded  satisfaction  of  the 
family, — children  and  all  being  then  present, — and  so  much 
to  the  awakening  of  Mr.  Micawber's  punctual  habits  in  the 
opening  stage  of  all  bill  transactions,  that  he  could  not  be 
dissuaded  from  immediately  rushing  out,  in  the  highest 
spirits,  to  buy  the  stamps  for  his  notes  of  hand.  But  his 
joy  received  a  sudden  check;  for  within  five  minutes,  he 
returned  in  the  custody  of  a  sheriff's  officer,  informing  us  in 
a  flood  of  tears,  that  all  was  lost.  We,  being  quite  prepared 
for  this  event,  which  was  of  course  a  proceeding  of  Uriah 
Heep's,  soon  paid  the  money;  and  in  five  minutes  more  Mr. 
Micawber  was  seated  at  the  table,  filling  up  the  stamps  with 
an  expression  of  perfect  joy,  which  only  that  congenial  em- 
ployment, or  the  making  of  punch,  could  impart  in  full  com- 
pleteness to  his  shining  face.  To  see  him  at  work  on  the 
stamps,  with  the  relish  of  an  artist,  touching  them  like 
pictures,  looking  at  them  sideways,  taking  weighty  notes 
of  dates  and  amounts  in  his  pocket-book,  and  contemplat- 
ing them  when  finished,  with  a  high  sense  of  their  precious 
value,  was  a  sight  indeed. 

"  Now  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  sir,  if  you'll  allow  me 
to  advise  you,"  said  my  aunt,  after  silently  observing  him, 
"  is  to  abjure  that  occupation  for  evermore." 

*'  Madam,"  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  ''  it  is  my  intention 
to  register  such  a  vow  on  the  virgin  page  of  the  future. 
Mrs.  Micawber  will  attest  it.  I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
solemnly,  "  that  my  son  Wilkins  will  ever  bear  in  mind, 
that  he  had  infinitely  better  put  his  fist  in  the  fire,  than 
use  it  to  handle  the  serpents  that  have  poisoned  the  life- 
blood  of  his  unhappy  parent !"  Deeply  affected,  and  changed 
in  a  moment  to  the  image  of  despair,  Mr.  Micawber  regarded 
the  serpents  with  a  look  of  gloomy  abhorrence  (in  which  his 
late  admiration  of  them  was  not  quite  subdued,)  folded  them 
up,  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

This  closed  the  proceedings  of  the  evening.  We  were 
weary  with  sorrow  and  fatigue,  and  my  aunt  and  I  were  to 
return  to  London  on  the  morrow.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
Micawbers  should  follow  us,  after  effecting  a  sale  of  their 
goods  to  a  broker;  that  Mr.  Wickfield's  affairs  should  be 
brought  to  a  settlement,  with  all  convenient  speed,  under 
the  direction  of  Traddles;  and  that  Agnes  should  also  come 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  775 

to  London,  pending  these  arrangements.  We  passed  the 
night  at  the  old  house,  which,  freed  from  the  presence  of 
the  Heeps,  seemed  purged  of  a  disease;  and  I  lay  in  my  old 
room,  like  a  shipwrecked  wanderer  come  home. 

We  went  back  next  day  to  my  aunt's  house — not  to  mine; 
and  when  she  and  I  sat  alone,  as  of  old,  before  going  to  bed, 
she  said: 

"  Trot,  do  you  really  wish  to  know  what  I  have  had  upon 
my  mind  lately  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  aunt.  If  there  ever  was  a  time  when  I  felt 
unwilling  that  you  should  have  a  sorrow  or  anxiety  which  I 
could  not  share,  it  is  now." 

"  You  have  had  sorrow  enough,  child,"  said  my  aunt,  af- 
fectionately, '*  without  the  addition  of  my  little  miseries.  I 
could  have  no  other  motive.  Trot,  in  keeping  anything 
from  you." 

*'  I  know  that  well,"  said  I.     "  But  tell  me  now." 

"  Would  you  ride  with  me  a  little  way  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" asked  my  aunt. 

'*  Of  course." 

"  At  nine,"  said  she.     "  I'll  tell  you  then,  my  dear." 

At  nine,  accordingly,  we  went  out  in  a  little  chariot,  and 
drove  to  London.  We  drove  along  way  through  the  streets, 
until  we  came  to  one  of  the  large  hospitals.  Standing  hard 
by  the  building  was  a  plain  hearse.  The  driver  recognized 
my  aunt,  and,  in  obedience  to  a  motion  of  her  hand  at  the 
window,  drove  slowly  off;  we  following. 

"  You  understand  it  now.  Trot,"  said  my  aunt.  "  He  is 
gone!" 

"  Did  he  die  in  the  hospital?" 

"Yes." 

She  sat  immovable  beside  me;  but  again  I  saw  the  stray 
tears  on  her  face. 

"He  was  there  once  before,"  said  my  aunt  presently. 
"  He  was  ailing  a  long  time — a  shattered,  broken  man,  these 
many  years.  When  he  knew  his  state  in  this  last  illness,  he 
asked  them  to  send  for  me.  He  was  sorry  then.  Very 
sorry." 

"  You  went,  I  know,  aunt." 

"  I  went.     I  was  with  him  a  good  deal  afterwards." 

"  He  died  the  night  before  we  went  to  Canterbury?"  said  I. 

My  aunt  nodded.  "  No  one  can  harm  him  now,"  she 
said.     "It  was  a  vain  threat."  . 


776  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

We  drove  away,  out  of  town,  to  the  churchyard  at  Horn- 
sey.  "  Better  here  than  in  the  streets,"  said  my  aunt.  *'  He 
was  born  here." 

We  alighted;  and  followed  the  plain  coffin  to  a  corner  I 
remember  well,  where  the  service  was  read  consigning  it  to 
the  dust. 

"  Six-and-thirty  years  ago,  this  day,  my  dear,"  said  my 
aunt,  as  we  walked  back  to  the  chariot,  "  I  was  married. 
God  forgive  us  all!" 

We  took  our  seats  in  silence;  and  so  she  sat  beside  me  for 
a  long  time,  holding  my  hand.  At  length  she  suddenly 
burst  into  tears,  and  said — 

"  He  was  a  fine-looking  man  when  I  married  him,  Trot, — 
and  he  was  sadly  changed!" 

It  did  not  last  long.  After  the  relief  of  tears  she  soon 
became  composed,  and  even  cheerful.  Her  nerves  were  a 
little  shaken,  she  said,  or  she  would  not  have  given  way  to  it. 
God  forgive  us  all! 

So  we  rode  back  to  her  little  cottage  at  Highgate,  where 
we  found  the  following  short  note,  which  had  arrived  by  that 
morning's  post  from  Mr,  Micawber: — 

"  Canterbury, 

"  Friday. 
"  My  dear  Madam,  and  Copperfield, 

"  The  fair  land  of  promise  lately  blooming  on 
the  horizon  is  again  enveloped  in  impenetrable  mists,  and 
for  ever  withdrawn  from  the  eyes  of  a  drifting  wretch,  whose 
Doom  is  sealed! 

"  Another  writ  has  been  issued  (in  His  Majesty's  High 
Court  of  King's  Bench  at  Westminster),  in  another  cause  of 
Heep  v.  Micawber,  and  the  defendant  in  that  cause  is  the 
prey  of  the  sheriff  having  legal  jurisdiction  in  this  bailiwick. 

"  '  Now's  the  day,  and    now's  the  hour, 
See  the  front  of  the  battle  lower. 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — , 
Chains  and  slavery! ' 

"  Consigned  to  which,  and  to  a  speedy  end  (for  mental  tor- 
ture is  not  supportable  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  that  point 
I  feel  I  have  attained),  my  course  is  run.  Bless  you,  bless 
you!  Some  future  traveler,  visiting,  from  motives  of  cur- 
iosity, not  unmingled,  let  us  hope,  with  sympathy,  the  place 


DAVit)  COPPERFIELD.  ^77 

of  confinement  allotted  to  debtors  in  this  city,  may,  and  I 
trust  will,  Ponder,  as  he  traces,  on  its  wall,  inscribed  with  a 
rusty  nail, 

"  The  obscure  initials, 

"  W.  M. 

"  P.  S.  I  re-open  this  to  say  that  our  common  friend, 
Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  (who  has  not  yet  left  us,  and  is  look- 
ing extremely  well),  has  paid  the  debt  and  costs,  in  the  noble 
name  of  Miss  Trotwood;  and  that  myself  and  the  family  are 
at  the  height  of  earthly  bliss." 

CHAPTER   LV. 

TEMPEST. 

I  NOW  approach  an  event  in  my  life,  so  indelible,  so 
awful,  so  bound  by  an  infinite  variety  of  ties  to  all  that  has 
preceded  it,  in  these  pages,  that,  from  the  beginning  of  my 
narrative  I  have  seen  it  growing  larger  and  larger  as  I  ad- 
vanced, like  a  great  tower  in  a  plain,  and  throwing  its  fore- 
cast shadow  even  on  the  incidents  of  my  childish  days. 

For  years  after  it  occurred  I  dreamed  of  it  often.  I  have 
started  up  so  vividly  impressed  by  it,  that  its  fury  as  yet 
seemed  raging  in  my  quiet  room,  in  the  still  night.  I  dream 
of  it  sometimes,  though  at  lengthened  and  uncertain  inter- 
vals, to  this  hour.  I  have  an  association  between  it  and  a 
stormy  wind,  or  the  lightest  mention  of  a  sea-shore,  as  strong 
as  any  of  which  my  mind  is  conscious.  As  plainly  as  I  be- 
hold what  happened,  I  will  try  to  write  it  down.  I  do  not 
recall  it,  but  see  it  done,  for  it  happens  again  before  me. 

The  time  drawing  on  rapidly  for  the  sailing  of  the  emi- 
grant-ship, my  good  old  nurse  (almost  broken-hearted  for 
me,  when  we  first  met)  came  up  to  London.  I  was  con- 
stantly with  her,  and  her  brother,  and  the  Micawbers  (they 
being  very  much  together);  but  Emily  I  never  saw. 

One  evening  when  the  time  was  close  at  hand,  I  was 
alone  with  Peggotty  and  her  brother.  Our  conversation 
turned  on  Ham.  She  described  to  us  how  tenderly  he  had 
taken  leave  of  her,  and  how  manfully  and  quietly  he  had 
borne  himself.  Most  of  all,  of  late,  when  she  believed  he 
was  most  tried.  It  was  a  subject  of  which  the  affectionate 
creature  never  tired;  and  our  interest  in  hearing  the  many 


778  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

examples  which  she,  who  was  so  much  with  him,  had  to  re- 
late, was  equal  to  hers  in  relating  them. 

My  aunt  and  I  were  at  that  time  vacating  the  two  cot- 
tages at  Highgate;  I  intending  to  go  abroad,  and  she  to 
return  to  her  house  at  Dover.  We  had  a  temporary  lodging 
in  Covent  Garden.  As  I  walked  home  to  it,  after  this  even- 
ing's conversation,  reflecting  on  what  had  passed  between 
Ham  and  myself  when  I  was  last  at  Yarmouth,  I  wavered 
in  the  original  purpose  I  had  formed,  of  leaving  a  letter  for 
Emily  when  I  should  take  leave  of  her  uncle  on  board  the 
ship,  and  thought  it  would  be  better  to  write  to  her  now. 
She  might  desire,  I  thought,  after  receiving  my  communica- 
tion, to  send  some  parting  word  by  me  to  her  unhappy  lover. 
I  ought  to  give  her  the  opportunity. 

I  therefore  sat  down  in  my  room,  before  going  to  bed,  and 
wrote  to  her.  I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  him,  and  that  he 
had  requested  me  to  tell  her  what  I  have  already  written  in 
its  place  in  these  sheets.  I  faithfully  repeated  it.  I  had  no 
need  to  enlarge  upon  it,  if  I  had  had  the  right.  Its  deep 
fidelity  and  goodness  were  not  to  be  adorned  by  me  or  any 
man.  I  left  it  out  to  be  sent  round  in  the  morning;  with  a 
line  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  requesting  him  to  give  it  to  her;  and 
went  to  bed  at  daybreak. 

I  was  weaker  than  I  knew  then;  and,  not  falling  asleep 
until  the  sun  was  up,  lay  late,  and  unrefreshed,  next  day.  I 
was  roused  by  the  silent  presence  of  my  aunt  at  my  bed- 
side. I  felt  it  in  my  sleep,  as  I  suppose  we  all  dg  feel  such 
things. 

*'  Trot,  my  dear,"  she  said,  when  I  opened  my  eyes,  "  I 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  disturb  you.  Mr.  Peggotty 
is  here;  shall  he  come  up?" 

I  replied  yes,  and  he  soon  appeared. 

*'  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said,  when  we  had  shaken  hands,  "  I 
giv'  Em'ly  your  letter,  sir,  and  she  writ  this  heer;  and  begged 
of  me  fur  to  ask  you  to  read  it,  and  if  you  see  no  hurt  in't, 
to  be  so  kind  as„  to  take  charge  on't." 

"  Have,  you  read  it  ?"  said  I. 

IJe-'tiodded  sorrowfully.  I  opened  it,  and  read  as  fol- 
)ws: 

*'  I  have  got  your  message.  Oh,  what  can  I  write,  to  thank  you  for 
your  good  and  blessed  kindness  to  me! 

"I  have  put  the  words  close  to  my  heart.  I  shall  keep  them  till  I 
die.     They  are  sharp  thorns,  but  they  are  such  comfort.     I  have,prayed 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  779 

over  them,  oh,  1  have  prayed  so  much.     When  I  find  what  you  are,  and 
what  uncle  is.  I  think  what  God  must  be,  and  can  cry  to  him. 

"Goodbye  for  ever.  Now,  my  dear,  my  friend,  good  bye  for  ever  in  this 
world.  In  another  world,  if  I  am  forgiven,  I  may  wake  a  child  and  come 
to  you.     All  thanks  and  blessings.     Farewell,  evermore  !" 

This,   blotted  with  tears,  was  the  letter. 

"  May  I  tell  her  as  you  doen't  see  no  hurt  in't,  and  as  you'll 
be  so  kind  as  to  take  charge  on't,  Mas'r  Davy  ?"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  when  I  had  read  it. 

"  Unquestionably;"  said  I — "  but  I  am  thinking — " 

"  Yes,  Mas'r  Davy  ?" 

*'  I  am  thinking,"  said  I,  "that  I'll  go  down  again  to  Yar- 
mouth. There's  time,  and  to  spare,  for  me  to  go  and  come 
back  before  the  ship  sails.  My  mind  is  constantly  running 
on  him  in  his  solitude;  to  put  this  letter  of  her  writing  in  his 
hand  at  this  time,  and  to  enable  you  to  tell  her,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  parting,  that  he  has  got  it,  will  be  a  kindness  to  both 
of  them.  I  solemnly  accepted  his  commission,  dear  good 
fellow,  and  cannot  discharge  it  too  completely.  The  journey 
is  nothing  to  me.  I  am  restless,  and  shall  be  better  in  motion. 
I'll  go  down  to-night." 

Though  he  anxiously  endeavored  to  dissuade  me,  I  saw  that 
he  was  of  my  mind;  and  this,  if  I  had  required  to  be  con- 
firmed in  my  intention,  would  have  had  the  effect.  He 
went  round  to  the  coach-office,  at  my  request,  and  took  the 
box-seat  for  me  on  the  mail.  In  the  evening  I  started  by 
that  conveyance,  down  the  road  I  had  traversed  under  so 
many  vicissitudes. 

"  Don't  you  think  that,"  I  asked  the  coachman,  in  the  first 
stage  out  of  London,  "  a  very  remarkable  sky  ?  I  don't  re- 
member to  have  seen  one  like  it." 

"  Nor  I — not  equal  to  it,"  he  replied.  "  That's  wind,  sir. 
There'll  be  mischief  done  at  sea,  I  expect,  before  long." 

It  was  a  murky  confusion — here  and  there  blotted  with  a 
color  like  the  color  of  the  smoke  from  damp  fuel — of  flying 
clouds,  tossed  up  into  most  remarkable  heaps,  suggesting 
greater  heights  in  the  clouds  than  there  were  depths  below 
them  to  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  hollows  in  the  earth,through 
which  the  wild  moon  seemed  to  plunge  headlong,  as  if,  in  a 
dread  disturbance  of  the  laws  of  nature,  she  had  lost  her  way. 
and  was  frightened.  There  had  been  a  wind  all  day;  and  it 
was  rising  then  with  an  extraordinary^great  sound.     In  ar- 


78o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

other  hour  it  had  much  increased,  and  the  sky  was  more 
overcast,  and  it  blew  hard. 

But  as  the  night  advanced,  the  clouds  closing  in  and 
densely  overspreading  the  whole  sky,  then  very  dark,  it  came 
on  to  blow  harder  and  harder.  It  still  increased,  until  our 
horses  could  scarcely  face  the  wind.  Many  times,  in  the  dark 
part  of  the  night  (it  was  then  late  in  September,  when  the 
nights  were  not  short),  the  leaders  turned  about,  or  came  to 
a  dead  stop;  and  we  were  often  in  serious  apprehension  that 
the  coach  would  be  blown  over.  Sweeping  gusts  of  rain 
came  up  before  this  storm  like  showers  of  steel;  and,  at  those 
times,  when  there  was  any  shelter  of  trees  or  lee  walls  to  be 
got,  we  were  fain  to  stop,  in  a  sheer  impossibility  of  continu- 
ing the  struggle. 

When  the  day  broke  it  blew  harder  and  harder.  I  had 
been  in  Yarmouth  when  the  seamen  said  it  blew  great  guns, 
but  I  had  never  known  the  like  of  this,  or  anything  approach- 
ing to  it.  We  came  to  Norwich — very  late,  having  had  to 
fight  every  inch  of  ground  since  we  were  ten  miles  out  of 
London;  and  found  a  cluster  of  people  in  the  market-place, 
who  had  risen  from  their  beds  in  the  night,  fearful  of  falling 
chimneys.  Some  of  these,  congregating  about  the  inn-yard 
while  we  changed  horses,  told  us  of  the  great  sheets  of  lead 
having  been  ripped  off  a  high  church-tower,  and  flung  into  a 
bye  street,  which  they  then  blocked  up.  Others  had  to  tell 
of  country  people,  coming  in  from  neighboring  villages,  who 
had  seen  great  trees  lying  torn  out  of  the  earth,  and  whole 
ricks  scattered  about  the  roads  and  fields.  Still,  there  was 
210  abatement  in  the  storni,  but  it  blew  harder. 

As  we  struggled  on,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sea,  from 
which  this  mighty  wind  was  blowing  dead  on  shore,  its  force 
became  more  and  more  terrific.  Long  before  we  saw  the 
sea,  its  spray  was  on  our  lips,  and  showered  salt  rain  upon 
us.  The  water  was  out  over  miles  and  miles  of  the  flat 
country  adjacent  to  Yarmouth;  and  every  sheet  and  puddle 
lashed  its  banks,  and  had  its  stress  of  light  breakers  setting 
heavily  towards  us  When  we  came  within  sight  of  the  sea, 
the  waves  on  the  horizon,  caught  at  intervals  above  the  roll- 
ing abyss,  were  like  glimpses  of  another  shore  with  towers 
and  buildings.  When  at  last  we  got  into  the  town,  the  peo- 
ple came  out  to  their  doors,  all  aslant,  and  with  streaming 
hair,  making  a  wonder  of  the  mail  that  had  come  through 
such  a  night. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  ^8i 

I  put  up  at  the  old  inn,  and  went  down  to  look  at  the  sea; 
staggering  along  the  street,  which  was  strewn  with  sand  and 
seaweed,  and  with-  flying  blotches  of  sea-foam;  afraid  of 
falling  slates  and  tiles;  and  holding  by  people  I  met,  at  an- 
gry corners.  Coming  near  the  beach,  I  saw,  not  only  the 
boatmen,  but  half  the  people  of  the  town,  lurking  behind 
buildings;  some  now  and  then  braving  the  fury  of  the  storm 
to  look  away  to  sea,  and  blown  sheer  out  of  their  course  in 
trying  to  get  zigzag  back. 

Joining  these  groups,  I  found  bewailing  women  whose 
husbands  were  away  in  herring  or  oyster  boats,  which  there 
was  too  much  reason  to  think  might  have  foundered  before 
they  could  have  run  in  anywhere  for  safety.  Grizzled  old 
sailors  were  among  the  people  shaking  their  heads,  as  they 
looked  from  water  to  sky,  and  muttering  to  one  another; 
ship-owners,  excited  and  uneasy;  children,  huddling  to- 
gether, and  peering  into  older  faces;  even  stout  mariners, 
disturbed  and  anxious,  leveling  their  glasses  at  the  sea  from 
behind  places  of  shelter,  as  if  they  were  surveying  an 
enemy. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could  find  sufficient 
pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the  agitation  of  the  blinding  wind,  the 
flying  stones  and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  confounded  me. 
As  the  high  watery  walls  came  rolling  in,  and,  at  their  high- 
est, tumbled  into  surf,  they  looked  as  if  the  least  would  en- 
gulf the  town.  As  the  receding  wave  swept  back  with  a 
hoarse  roar,  it  seemed  to  scoop  out  deep  caves  in  the  beach^ 
as  if  its  purpose  were  to  undermine  the  earth.  When  some 
white-headed  billows  thundered  on,  and  dashed  themselves 
to  pieces  before  they  reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of 
the  late  whole  seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of  its 
wrath,  rushing  to  be  gathered  to  the  composition  of  another 
monster.  Undulating  hills  were  changed  to  valleys,  un- 
dulating valleys  (with  a  solitary  storm-bird  sometimes  skim- 
ming through  them)  were  lifted  up  to  hills;  masses  of  water 
shivered  and  shook  the  beach  with  a  booming  sound;  every 
shape  tumultuously  rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made,  to  change 
its  shape  and  place,  and  beat  another  shape  and  place  away; 
the  ideal  shore  on  the  horizon,  with  its  towers  and  build- 
ings, rose  and  fell;  the  clouds  flew  fast  and  thick;  I  seemed 
to  see  a  rending  and  upheaving  of  all  nature. 

Not  finding  Ham  among  the  people  whom  this  memorable 
wind — for  it  is  still  remembered  dowu  there;,  as  the  greatest 


782  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ever  known  to  blow  upon  that  coast — had  brought  together, 
I  made  my  way  to  his  house.  It  was  shut;  and  as  no  one 
answered  to  my  knocking,  I  went,  by  back  ways  and  by- 
lanes,  to  the  yard  where  he  worked.  I  learned,  there,  that 
he  had  gone  to  Lowestoft,  to  meet  some  sudden  exigency  of 
ship-repairing  in  which  his  skill  was  required;  but  that  he 
would  be  back  to-morrow  morning,  in  good  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn;  and  when  I  had  washed  and 
dressed,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  in  vain,  it  was  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  by  the  coffee- 
room  fire,  when  the  waiter,  coming  to  stir  it,  as  an  excuse 
for  talking,  told  me  that  two  colliers  had  gone  down,  with  all 
hands,  a  few  miles  away;  and  that  some  other  ships  had 
been  seen  laboring  hard  in  the  Roads,  and  trying,  in  great 
distress,  to  keep  off-shore.  Mercy  on  them,  and  on  all  poor 
sailors,  said  he,  if  we  had  another  night  like  the  last! 

I  was  very  much  depressed  in  spirits;  very  solitary;  and 
felt  an  uneasiness  in  Ham's  not  being  there,  disproportionate 
to  the  occasion.  I  was  seriously  affected,,  without  knowing 
how  much,  by  late  events;  and  my  long  exposure  to  the 
fierce  wind  had  confused  me.  There  was  that  iumble  in  my 
thoughts  and  recollections,  that  I  had  lost  the  clear  arrange- 
ment of  time  and  distance.  Thus,  if  I  had  gone  out  into 
the  town,  I  should  not  have  been  surprised,  I  think,  to  en- 
counter some  one  who  I  knew  must  be  then  in  London.  So 
to  speak,  there  was  in  these  respects  a  curious  inattention 
in  my  mind.  Yet  it  was  busy,  too,  with  all  the  remem- 
brances the  place  naturally  awakened;  and  they  were  partic- 
ularly distinct  and  vivid. 

In  this  state,  the  waiter's  dismal  intelligence  about  the 
ships  immediately  connected  itself,  without  any  effort  of  my 
volition,  with  my  uneasiness  about  Ham.  I  was  persuaded 
that  I  had  an  apprehension  of  his  returning  from  Lowestoft 
by  sea,  and  being  lost.  This  grew  so  strong  with  me,  that  I 
resolved  to  go  back  to  the  yard  before  I  took  my  dinner, 
and  ask  the  boat-builder  if  he  thought  his  attempting  to  re- 
turn by  sea  at  all  likely?  If  he  gave  me  the  least  reason  to 
think  so,  I  would  go  over  to  Lowestoft  and  prevent  it  by 
bringing  him  with  me. 

I  hastily  ordered  my  dinner,  and  went  back  to  the  yard. 
I  was  none  too  soon;  for  the  boat-builder,  with  a  lantern  in 
his  hand,  was  locking  the  yard-gate.  He  quite  laughed 
when  I  asked  him  the  question,  and  said  there  was  no  fear; 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  783 

no  man  in  his  senses,  or  out  of  them,  would  put  off  in  such 
a  gale  of  wind,  least  of  all  Ham  Peggotty,  who  had  been 
born  to  seafaring. 

So  sensible  of  this  beforehand,  that  I  had  really  felt 
ashamed  of  doing  what  I  was  nevertheless  impelled  to  do,  I 
went  back  to  the  inn.  If  such  a  wind  could  rise,  1  think  it 
was  rising.  The  howl  and  roar,  the  rattling  of  the  doors 
and  windows,  the  rumbling  in  the  chimneys,  the  apparent 
rocking  of  the  very  house  that  sheltered  me,  and  the  prodi- 
gious tumult  of  the  sea,  were  more  fearful  than  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  there  was  now  a  great  darkness  besides;  and  tha*- 
invested  the  storm  with  new  terrors,  real  and  fanciful. 

I  could  not  eat,  I  could  not  sit  still,  I  could  not  continue 
steadfast  to  anything.  Something  within  me,  faintly  answer- 
ing to  the  storm  without,  tossed  up  the  depths  of  my  mem- 
ory, and  made  a  tumult  in  them.  Yet,  in  all  the  hurry  of 
my  thoughts,  wild  running  with  the  thundering  sea — the 
storm,  and  my  uneasiness  regarding  Ham,  were  always  in 
the  fore-ground. 

My  dinner  went  away  almost  untasted,and  I  tried  to  refresh 
myself  with  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  In  vain.  I  fell  into  a 
dull  slumber  before  the  fire,  without  losing  my  consciousness, 
either  of  the  uproar  out  of  doors,  or  of  the  place  in  ivhich  I 
was.  Both  became  overshadowed  by  a  new  and  mdefinable 
horror;  and  when  I  awoke — or  rather  when  I  shook  off  the 
lethargy  that  bound  me  in  my  chair — my  whole  frame  thrilled 
with  objectless  and  unintelligible  fear. 

I  walked  to  and  fro,  tried  to  read  an  old  gazetteer,  listened 
to  the  awful  noises:  looked  at  faces,  scenes,  and  figures  in 
the  fire.  At  length  the  steady  ticking  of  the  undisturbed 
clock  on  the  wall,  tormented  me  to  that  degree  that  I  re- 
solved to  go  to  bed. 

It  was  re-assuring,  on  such  a  night,  to  be  told  that  some 
of  the  inn-servants  had  agreed  together  to  sit  up  until  morn- 
ing. I  went  to  bed,  exceeding  weary  and  heavy;  but  on 
my  lying  down,  all  such  sensations  vanished,  as  if  by  magic, 
and  I  was  broad  awake,  with  every  sense  refined. 

For  hours  I  lay  there,  listening  to  the^  wind  and  water; 
imagining  now,  that  I  heard  shrieks  out  at  sea;  now,  that  I 
distinctly  heard  the  firing  of  signal  guns;  and  now,  the  fall 
of  houses  in  the  town.  I  got  up,  several  times,  and  looked 
out;  but  could  see  nothing,  except  the  reflection  in  the  win- 


784  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

dow-panes  of  the  faint  candle  I  had  left  burning,  and  of  my 
own  haggard  face  looking  in  at  me  from  the  black  void. 

At  length  my  restlessness  attained  to  such  a  pitch,  that  1 
hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  went  down  stairs.  In  the  large 
kitchen,  where  I  dimly  saw  bacon  and  ropes  of  onions  hang- 
ing from  the  beams,  the  watchers  were  clustered  together,  in 
various  attitudes,  about  a  table,  purposely  moved  away  from 
the  great  chimney,  and  brought  near  the  door.  A  pretty 
girl,  who  had  her  ears  stopped  with  her  apron,  and  her  eyes 
on  the  door,  screamed  when  I  appeared,  supposing  me  to  be 
a  spirit;  but  the  others  had  more  presence  of  mind,  and 
were  glad  of  an  addition  to  their  company.  One  man,  refer- 
ring to  the  topic  they  had  been  discussing,  asked  me  whether 
I  thought  the  souls  of  the  collier-crews  who  had  gone  down, 
were  out  in  the  storm? 

I  remained  there,  I  dare  say,  two  hours.  Once,  I  opened 
the  yard-gate,  and  looked  into  the  empty  street.  The  sand, 
the  sea-weed,  and  the  flakes  of  foam,  were  driving  by;  and 
I  was  obliged  to  call  for  assistance  before  I  could  shut  the 
gate  again,  and  make  it  fast  against  the  wind. 

There  was  a  dark  gloom  in  my  solitary  chamber,  when  I 
at  length  returned  to  it;  but  I  was  tired  now,  and,  getting 
into  bed  again,  fell — off  a  tower  and  a  precipice — into  the 
depths  of  sleep.  I  have  an  impression  that  for  a  long  time, 
though  I  dreamed  of  being  elsewhere  and  in  a  variety  of 
scenes,  it  was  always  blowing  in  my  dream.  At  length  I 
lost  that  feeble  hold  upon  reality,  and  was  engaged  with  two 
dear  friends,  but  who  they  were  I  don't  know,  at  the  siege 
of  some  town  in  a  roar  of  cannonading. 

The  thunder  of  the  cannon  was  so  loud  and  incessant,  that 
I  could  not  hear  something  I  much  desired  to  hear,  until  I 
made  a  great  exertion  and  awoke.  It  was  broad  day — 
eight  or  nine  o'clock;  the  storm  raging,  in  lieu  of  the  bat- 
teries; and  some  one  knocking  and  calling  at  my  door. 

"What's  the  matter!"  I  cried. 

"A  wreck!     Close  by!"  • 

I  sprung  out  of  bed,  and  asked  what  wreck? 

"  A  schooner  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden  with  fruit 
and  wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you  want  to  see  her!  It's 
thought,down  on  the  beach,  she'll  go  to  pieces  every  moment." 

The  excited  voice  went  clamoring  along  the  staircase;  and 
I  wrapped  myself  in  my  clothes  as  quickly  as  I  could,  and 
ran  into  the  street. 

Numbers  of  people  were  there  before  me,  all  running  in 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  78$ 

one  direction,  to  the  beach.  I  ran  the  same  way,  outstrip- 
ping a  good  many,  and  soon  came  facing  the  wild  sea. 

The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a  little,  though 
not  more  sensibly  than  if  the  cannonading  I  had  dreamed 
of,  had  been  diminished  by  the  silencing  of  half-a-dozen 
guns  out  of  hundreds.  But  the  sea,  having  upon  it  the  ad- 
ditional agitation  of  the  whole  night,  was  infinitely  more 
terrific  than  when  I  had  seen  it  last.  Every  appearance  it 
had  then  presented,  bore  the  expression  of  being  swelled ; 
and  the  height  to  which  the  breakers  rose,  and,  looking  over 
one  another,  bore  one  another  down,  and  rolled  in,  in  inter- 
minable hosts,  was  most  appalling. 

In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  anything  but  wind  and  waves, 
and  in  the  crowd,  and  the  unspeakable  confusion,  and  my 
first  breathless  efforts  to  stand  against  the  weather,  I  was  so 
confused  that  I  looked  out  to  sea  for  the  wreck,  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  foaming  heads  of  the  great  waves.  A  half- 
dressed  boatman,  standing  next  me,  pointed  with  his  bare 
arm  (a  tattoo'd  arrow  on  it,  pointing  in  the  same  direction) 
to  the  left.  Then,  oh  great  Heaven,  I  saw  it,  close  in  upon 
us! 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off,  six  or  eight  feet  from 
the  deck,  and  lay  over  the  side,  entangled  in  a  maze  of  sail 
and  rigging;  and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled  and  beat — 
which  she  did  without  a  moment's  pause,  and  with  a  vio- 
lence quite  inconceivable — beat  the  side  as  if  it  would  stave  it 
in.  Some  efforts  were  even  then  being  made,  to  cut  this 
portion  of  the  wreck  away;  for  as  the  ship,  which  was 
broadside  on,  turned  towards  us  in  her  rolling,  I  plainly 
descried  her  people  at  work  with  axes,  especially  one  ac- 
tive figure  with  long  curling  hair,  conspicuous  among  the 
rest.  But,  a  great  cry,  which  was  audible  even  above  the 
wind  and  water,  rose  from  the  shore  at  this  moment;  the 
sea,  sweeping  over  the  rolling  wreck,  made  a  clean  breach, 
and  carried  men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bulwarks,  heaps  of 
such  toys  into  the  boiling  surge. 

The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the  rags  of  a  rent 
sail,  and  a  wild  confusion  of  broken  cordage  flapping  to  and 
fro.  The  ship  had  struck  once,  the  same  boatman  hoarsely 
said  in  my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in  and  struck  again.  I  un- 
derstood him  to  add  that  she  was  parting  amidships,  and  I 
could  readily  suppose  so,  for  the  rolling  and  beating  were 
too  tremendous  for  any  hunj^i^  wpi^k,  tq  ^uff^r  liQO^    As  he 


7^6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

spoke,  there  was  another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the  beach; 
four  men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of  the  deep,  cHnging  to 
the  rigging  of  the  remaining  mast;  uppermost,  the  active 
figure  with  the  curUng  hair. 

There  was  a  bell  on  board;  and  as  the  ship  rolled  and 
dashed,  like  a  desperate  creature  driven  mad,  now  showing 
us  the  whole  sweep  of  her  deck,  as  she  turned  on  her  beam- 
ends  towards  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel,  as  she 
sprung  wildly  over  and  turned  towards  the  sea,  the  bell  rang; 
and  its  sound,  the  knell  of  those  unhappy  men,  was  borne 
towards  us  on  the  wind.  Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she 
rose.  Two  men  were  gone.  The  agony  on  shore  increased. 
Men  groaned,  and  clasped  their  hands;  women  shrieked, 
and  turned  away  their  faces.  Some  ran  wildly  up  and  down 
along  the  beach,  crying  for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I 
found  myself  one  of  these,  frantically  imploring  a  knot  of 
sailors  whom  I  knew,  not  to  let  those  two  lost  creatures  per- 
ish before  our  eyes. 

They  were  making  out  to  me,  in  an  agitated  way — I  don't 
know  how,  for  the  little  I  could  hear  I  was  scarcely  com- 
posed enough  to  understand — that  the  life-boat  had  been 
bravely  manned  an  hour  ago,  and  could  do  nothing;  and  as 
no  man  would  be  so  desperate  as  to  attempt  to  wade  off 
with  a  rope,  and  establish  a  communication  with  the  shore, 
there  was  nothing  left  to  try;  when  I  noticed  that  some  new 
sensation  moved  the  people  on  the  beach,  and  saw  them 
part,  and  Ham  came  breaking  through  them  to  the  front. 

I  ran  to  him — as  well  as  I  know,  to  repeat  my  appeal  for 
help.  But^distracted  though  I  was,  by  a  sight  so  new  to  me 
and  terrible,  the  determination  in  his  face,  and  his  iQok  out 
at  sea — exactly  the  same  look  as  I  remembered  in  connec- 
tion with  the  morning  after  Emily's  flight — awoke  me  to  a 
knowledge  of  his  danger.  I  held  him  back  with  both  arms; 
and  implored  the  men  with  whom  I  had  been  speaking,  not 
to  listen  to  him,  not  to  do  murder,  not  to  let  him  stir  from 
off  the  sand  ! 

Another  cry  arose  on  the  shore;  and  looking  to  the  wreck, 
we  saw  the  cruel  sail,  with  blow  on  blow,  bear  off  the  lower 
of  the  two  men,  and  fly  up  in  triumph  round  the  active  fig- 
ure left  alone  upon  the  mast. 

Against  such  a  sight,  and  against  such  determination  as 
that  of  the  calmly  desperate  man  who  was  already  accus- 
tomed to  lead  half  the  peoj)le  present,  I  might  as  hopefully 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  787 

have  entreated  the  wind.  *'  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said,  cheerily 
grasping  me  by  both  hands,  "  if  my  time  is  come,  'tis  come. 
If  'tan't,  I'll  bide  it.  Lord  above  bless  you,  and  bless  all  ! 
Mates,  make  me  ready  !     I'm  agoing  off  !" 

I  was  swept  away,  but  not  unkindly,  to  some  distance, 
where  the  pegple  around  me  made  me  stay;  urging,  as  I  con- 
fusedly perceived,  that  he  was  bent  on  going,  with  help  or 
without,  and  that  I  should  endanger  the  precautions  for  his 
safety  by  troubling  those  with  whom  they  rested.  I  don't 
know  what  I  answered,  or  what  they  rejoined;  but  I  saw 
hurry  on  the  beach,  and  men  running  with  ropes  from  a 
capstan  that  was  there,  and  penetrating  into  a  circle  of  fig- 
ures that  hid  him  from  me.  Then  I  saw  him  standing  alone, 
in  a  seaman's  frock  and  trowsers  ;  a  rope  in  his  hand,  or 
slung  to  his  wrist  ;  another  round  his  body  ;  and  several  of 
the  best  men  holding,  at  a  little  distance,  to  the  latter,  which 
he  laid  out  himself,  slack  upon  the  shore,  at  his  feet.  ^ 

The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpracticed  eye,  was  breaking  up. 
I  saw  that  she  was  parting  in  the  middle,  and  that  the  life  of 
the  solitary  man  upon  the  mast  hung  by  a  thread.  Still 
he  clung  to  it.  He  had  a  singular  red  cap  on, — not  like  a 
sailor's  cap,  but  of  a  finer  color;  and  as  the  few  yielding 
planks  between  him  and  destruction  rolled  and  bulged,  and 
his  anticipative  death-knell  rung,  he  was  seen  by  all  of  us  to 
wave  it.  I  saw  him  do  it  now,  and  thought  I  was  going  dis- 
tracted, when  his  action  brought  an  old  remembrance  to  my 
mind  of  a  once  dear  friend. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with  the  silence  of 
suspended  breath  behind  him,  and  the  storm  before,  until 
there  was  a  great  retiring  wave,  when,  with  a  backward  glance 
at  those  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made  fast  round  his 
body,  he  dashed  in  after  it,  and  in  a  moment  was  buffeting 
with  the  water;  rising  with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys, 
lost  beneath  the  foam;  then  drawn  again  to  land.  They 
hauled  in  hastily. 

He  was  hurt.  I  saw  blood  on  his  face,  from  where  I  stood; 
but  he  took  no  thought  of  that.  He  seemed  hurriedly  to 
give  them  some  directions  for  leaving  him  more  free — or 
so  I  judged  from  the  motion  of  his  arm — and  was  gone  as 
before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising  with  the  hills,  fall- 
ing with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  rugged  foam,  borne  in 
towards  the  shore,  borne  on  towards  the  ship,  striving  har^ 


738  DAVID  COPPERFIELDi 

and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  nothing,  but  the  power  of 
the  sea  and  wind  made  the  strife  deadly.  At  length  he 
neared  the  wreck.  He  was  so  near,  that  with  one  more  of 
his  vigorous  strokes,  he  would  be  clinging  to  it — when,  a 
high,  green,  vast  hill-side  of  water,  moving  on  shoreward, 
from  beyond  the  ship,  he  seemed  to  leap  up  ijito  it  with  a 
mighty  bound,  and  the  ship  was  gone  ! 

Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea,  as  if  a  mere  cask 
had  been  broken,  in  running  to  the  spot  where  they  were 
hauling  in.  Consternation  was  in  every  face.  They  drew  him 
to  my  very  feet — insensible — dead.  He  was  carried  to  the 
nearest  house;  and,  no  one  preventing  me  now,  I  remained 
near  him,  busy,  while  every  means  of  restoration  were  tried; 
but  he  had  been  beaten  to  death  by  the  great  wave,  and  his 
generous  heart  was  stilled  for  ever. 

As  I  sat  beside  the  bed,  when  hope  was  abandoned  and 
all  was  done,  a  fisherman,  who  had  known  me  when  Emily 
and  I  were  children,  and  ever  since,  whispered  my  name  at 
the  door. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  with  tears  starting  to  his  weather-beaten 
face,  which,  with  his  trembling  lips,  was  ashy  pale,  "  will  you 
come  over  yonder?" 

The  old  remembrance  that  had  been  recalled  to  me,  was  in 
his  look.  I  asked  him,  terror-stricken,  leaning  on  the  arm  he 
held  out  to  support  me: 

"  Has  a  body  come  ashore  ?" 

He  said,  "Yes." 

"  Do  I  know  it  ?"  I  asked  then. 

He  answered  nothing. 

But  he  led  me  to  the  shore.  And  on  that  part  of  it 
where  she  and  I  had  looked  for  shells,  two  children — on 
that  part  of  it  where  some  lighter  fragments  of  the  old  boat, 
blown  down  last  night,  had  been  scattered  by  the  wind — 
among  the  ruins  of  the  home  he  had  wronged — I  saw  him 
lying  with  his  head  upo-n  his  arm,  as  I  had  often  seen  him 
lie  at  school. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  789 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

THE    NEW    WOUND,    AND    THE    OLD. 

No  need,  oh  Steerforth,  to  have  said,  when  we  last  spoke 
together,  in  that  hour  which  I  so  little  deemed  to  be  our 
parting-hour — no  need  to  have  said,  "  Think  of  me  at  my 
best !"  I  had  done  that  ever  ;  and  could  I  change  now, 
looking  on  this  sight ! 

They  brought  a  hand-bier,  and  laid  him  on  it,  and  covered 
him  with  a  flag,  and  took  him  up  and  bore  him  towards  the 
houses.  All  the  men  who  carried  him  had  known  him,  and 
gone  sailing  with  him,  and  seen  him  merry  and  bold.  They 
carried  him  through  the  wild  roar,  a  hush  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  tumult ;  and  took  him  to  the  cottage  where  Death 
was  already. 

But  when  they  set  the  bier  down  on  the  threshold,  they 
looked  at  one  another,  and  at  me,  and  whispered,  I  knew 
why.  They  felt  as  if  it  were  not  right  to  lay  him  down  in 
the  same  quiet  room. 

We  went  into  the  town,  and  took  our  burden  to  the  inn. 
So  soon  as  I  could  at  all  collect  my  thoughts,  I  sent  for 
Joram,  and  begged  him  to  provide  me  a  conveyance  in 
which  it  could  be  got  to  London  in  the  night.  I  knew  that 
the  care  of  it,  and  the  hard  duty  of  preparing  his  mother  to 
receive  it,  could  only  rest  with  me  and  I  was  anxious  to 
discharge  that  duty  as  faithfully  as  I  could. 

I  chose  the  night  for  the  journey,  that  there  might  be  less 
curiosity  when  I  left  town.  But  although  it  was  nearly 
midnight  when  I  came  out  of  the  yard  in  a  chaise,  followed 
by  what  I  had  in  charge,  there  were  many  people  waiting. 
At  intervals,  along  the  town,  and  even  a  little  way  out  upon 
the  road,  I  saw  more  ;  but  at  length  only  the  bleak  night 
and  the  open  country  were  around  me,  and  the  ashes  of  my 
youthful  friendship. 

Upon  a  mellow  autumn  day,  about  noon,  when  the  ground 
was  perfumed  by  fallen  leaves,  and  many  more,  in  beautiful 
tints  of  yellow,  red,  and  brown,  yet  hung  upon  the  trees, 
through  which  the  sun  was  shining,  I  arrived  at  Highgate. 
I  walked  the  last  mile,  thinking  as  I  walked  along  of  what 
I  had  to  do  ;  and  left  the  carriage  that  had  followed  me  aU 
through  the  night,  awaiting  orders  to  advance. 


790  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

The  house,  when  I  came  up  to  it,  looked  just  the  same. 
Not  a  blind  was  raised;  no  sign  of  life  was  in  the  dull  paved 
court,  with  its  covered  way  leading  to  the  disused  door. 
The  wind  had  quite  gone  down,  and  nothing  moved. 

I  had  not,  at  first,  the  courage  to  ring  at  the  gate;  and 
when  I  did  ring,  my  errand  seemed  to  me  to  be  expressed  in 
the  very  sound  of  the  bell.  The  little  parlor-maid  came  out, 
with  the  key  in  her  hand;  and  looking  earnestly  at  me  as 
she  unlocked  the  gate,  said: 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     Are  you  ill?" 

"  I  have  been  much  agitated,  and  am  fatigued." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  sir? — Mr.  James? " 

"  Hush!"  said  I.  "  Yes,  something  has  happened,  that  I 
have  to  break  to  Mrs,  Steerforth.     She  is  at  home?" 

The  girl  anxiously  replied  that  her  mistress  was  very  sel- 
dom out  now,  even  in  a  carriage;  that  she  kept  her  room; 
that  she  saw  no  company,  but  would  see  me.  Her  mistress 
was  up,  she  said,  and  Miss  Dartle  was  with  her.  What  mes- 
sage should  she  take  up  stairs? 

Giving  her  a  strict  charge  to  be  careful  of  her  manner, 
and  only  to  carry  in  my  card  and  say  I  waited,  I  sat  down 
in  the  drawing-room  (vv^hich  we  had  now  reached)  until  she 
should  come  back.  Its  former  pleasant  air  of  occupation 
was  gone,  and  the  shutters  were  half  closed.  The  harp  had 
not  been  used  for  many  and  many  a  day.  His  picture,  as  a 
boy,  was  there.  The  cabinet  in  which  his  mother  had  kept 
his  letters  was  there.  I  wondered  if  she  ever  read  them 
now;  if  she  would  ever  read  th       more! 

The  house  was  so  still,  that  I  heard  the  girl's  light  step  up 
stairs.  On  her  return,  she  brought  a  message,  to  the  effect 
that  Mrs.  Steerforth  was  an  invalid  and  could  not  come 
down;  but  that  if  I  would  excuse  her  being  in  her  chamber, 
she  would  be  glad  to  see  me.  In  a  few  moments  I  stood 
before  her. 

She  was  in  his  room;  not  in  her  own.  I  felt,  of  course, 
that  she  had  taken  to  occupy  it,  in  remembrance  of  him; 
and  that  the  many  tokens  of  his  old  sports  and  accomplish- 
ments, by  which  she  was  surrounded,  remained  there,  just 
as  he  had  left  them,  for  the  same  reason.  She  murmured, 
however,  even  in  her  reception  of  me,  that  she  was  out  of 
her  own  chamber  because  its  aspect  was  unsuited  to  her  in- 
firmity and  with  her  stately  look  repelled  the  least  suspicion 
of  the  truth. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  791 

At  her  chair,  as  usual,  was  Rosa  Dartle.  From  the  first 
moment  of  her  dark  eyes  resting  on  me,  I  saw  she  knew  I 
was  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings.  The  scar  sprang  into  view 
that  instant.  She  withdrew  herself  a  step  behind  the  chair, 
to  keep  her  own  face  out  of  Mrs.  Steerforth's  observation; 
and  scrutinized  me  with  a  piercing  gaze  that  never  faltered, 
never  shrunk. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  observe  you  are  in  mourning,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Steerforth. 

**  I  am  unhappily  a  widower,"  said  I. 

"  You  are  very  young  to  know  so  great  a  loss,"  she  re- 
turned. "  I  am  grieved  to  hear  it.  I  am  grieved  to  hear  it. 
I  hope  Time  will  be  good  to  you." 

"  I  hope  Time,"  said  I,  looking  at  her,  "  will  be  good  to 
all  of  us.  Dear  Mrs.  Steerforth,  we  must  all  trust  to 
that,  in  our  heaviest  misfortunes." 

The  earnestness  of  my  manner,  and  the  tears  in  my  eyes, 
alarmed  her.  The  whole  course  of  her  thoughts  appeared 
to  stop,  and  change. 

I  tried  to  command  my  voice  in  gently  saying  his  name, 
but  it  trembled.  She  repeated  it  to  herself,  two  or  three 
times,  in  a  low  tone.  Then,  addressing  me,  she  said,  with 
enforced  calmness: 

"  My  son  is  ill." 

"Very  ill." 

"  You  have  seen  him?" 

"  I  have." 

"  Are  you  reconciled?" 

I  could  not  say  Yes,  I  could  not  say  No.  She  slightly 
turned  her  head  towards  the  spot  where  Rosa  Dartle  had 
been  standing  at  her  elbow,  and  in  that  moment  I  said,  by 
the  motion  of  my  lips,  to  Rosa,  "  Dead  !" 

That  Mrs.  Steerforth  might  not  be  induced  to  look  behind 
her,  and  read,  plainly  written,  what  she  was  not  yet  prepared 
to  know,  I  met  her  look  quickly;  but  I  had  seen  Rosa  Dartle 
throw  her  hands  up  in  the  air  with  vehemence  of  despair  and 
horror,  and  then  clasp  them  on  her  face. 

The  handsome  lady — so  like,  oh,  so  like  ! — regarded  me 
with  a  fixed  look,  and  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  I  be- 
sought her  to  be  calm,  and  prepare  herself  to  hear  what  I 
had  to  tell;  but  I  should  rather  have  entreated  her  to  weep, 
for  she  sat  like  a  stone  figure. 

"  When  I  was  last  here,"  I  faltered,  *'  Miss  Dartle  told  me 


792  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

he  was  sailing  here  and  there.  The  night  before  last  was  a 
dreadful  one  at  sea.  If  he  were  at  sea  that  night,  and  near 
a  dangerous  coast,  as  it  is  said  he  was;  and  if  the  vessel  that 
was  seen  should  really  be  the  ship  which " 

"  Rosa  !"  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  "  come  to  mc  T' 

She  came,  but  with  no  sympathy  or  gentleness.  Her  eyes 
gleamed  like  fire  as  she  confronted  his  mother^  and  broke  into 
a  frightful  laugh. 

*'  Now,"  she  said,  "  is  your  pride  appeased,  you  mad 
woman '.  Now  has  he  made  atonement  to  you — with  his  life  ! 
Do  you  hear  ? — -His  life  !" 

Mrs.  Steerforth,  fallen  back  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and  making 
no  sound  but  a  moan,  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  wild  stare. 

**Ay,"  cried  Rosa,  smiting  herself  passionatel)  on  the 
breast,  "  look  at  me  !  Moan  and  groan,  and  look  at  me  ! 
Look  here  !"  striking  the  scar,  "at  your  dead  child's  handi- 
work !" 

The  moan  the  mother  uttered,  from  time  to  time,  went  to 
my  heart.  Always  the  same.  Always  inarticulate  and  stifled. 
Always  accompanied  with  an  incapable  motion  of  the  head, 
but  with  no  change  of  face.  Always  proceeding  from  a 
rigid  mouth  and  closed  teeth  as  if  the  jaws  were  locked  and 
the  face  frozen  up  in  pain. 

"  Do  you  remember  when  he  did  this  T  she  proceeded. 
"  Do  you  remember  when  in  his  inheritance  of  your  nature, 
and  in  your  pampering  of  his  pride  and  passion,  he  did  this, 
and  disfigured  me  for  life  ?  Look  at  me,  marked  until  I  die 
with  his  high  displeasure;  and  moan  and  groan  for  what  you 
made  him  !" 

*'  Miss  Dartle,"  I  entreated  her.     "  For  Heaven's  sake — " 

"  I  will  speak,"  she  said,  turning  on  me  with  her  lightning 
eyes.  "  Be  silent  you  !  Look  at  me,  I  say,  proud  mother 
of  a  proud  false  son  !  Moan  for  your  nurture  of  him,  moan 
for  your  corruption  of  him,  moan  for  your  loss  of  him,  moan 
for  mine  !" 

She  clenched  her  hand,  and  trembled  through  her  spare, 
worn  figure,  as  if  her  passion  were  killing  her  by  inches. 

"  You,  resent  his  self-will!"  she  exclaimed.  "You,  in- 
jured by  his  haughty  temper  !  You,  who  opposed  to  both, 
when  your  hair  was  gray,  the  qualities  which  made  both 
when  you  gave  him  birth  !  You,  who  from  his  cradle  reared 
him  to  be  what  he  was,  and  stunted  what  he  should  have 
been  !     Are  you  rewarded,  now^  for  your  years  of  trouble  t  '• 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  793 

"O,  Miss  Dartle,  shame  !  O  cruel !" 

"  I  tell  you,"  she  returned,  "  I  will  speak  to  her.  No 
power  on  earth  should  stop  me,  while  I  was  standing  here  ! 
Have  I  been  silent  all  these  years,  and  shall  I  not  speak  now  ? 
I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  loved  him  !"  turning  on  her 
fiercely.  "  I  could  have  loved  him,  and  asked  no  return. 
If  I  had  been  his  wife,  I  could  have  been  the  slave  of  his 
caprices  for  a  word  of  love  a  year.  I  should  have  been.  Who 
knows  it  better  than  I  ?  You  were  exacting,  proud,  punc- 
tilious, selfish.  My  love  would  have  been  devoted — would 
have  trod  your  paltry  whimpering  under  foot." 

With  flashing  eyes,  she  stamped  upon  the  ground  as  if  she 
actually  did  it. 

"  Look  here  !"  she  said,  striking  the  scar  again,  with  a  re- 
lentless hand.  "  When  he  grew  into  the  better  understand- 
ing of  what  he  had  done,  he  saw  it,  and  repented  of  it !  I 
could  sing  to  him,  and  talk  to  him,  and  show  the  ardor  that  I 
felt  in  all  he  did,  and  attain  with  labor  to  such  knowledge  as 
most  interested  him;  and  I  attracted  him.  When  he  was 
freshest  and  truest,  he  loved  me.  Yes,  he  did  !  Many  a  time, 
when  you  were  put  off  with  a  light  word,  he  has  taken  Me  to 
his  heart !" 

She  said  it  with  a  taunting  pride  in  the  midst  of  her  frenzy 
— for  it  was  little  less — yet  with  an  eager  remonstrance  of  it, 
in  which  the  smoldering  embers  of  a  gentler  feeling  kindled 
for  the  moment. 

"  I  descended — as  I  might  have  known  I  should,  but  that 
he  fascinated  me  with  his  boyish  courtship^nto  a  doll,  a 
trifle  for  the  occupation  of  an  idle  hour,  to  be  dropped,  and 
taken  up,  and  trifled  with,  as  the  inconstant  humor  took 
him.  When  he  grew  weary,  I  grew  weary.  As  his  fancy 
died  out,  I  would  no  more  have  tried  to  strengthen  any 
power  I  had,  than  I  would  have  married  him  on  his  being 
forced  to  take  me  for  his  wife.  We  fell  away  from  one 
another  without  a  word.  Perhaps  you  saw  it,  and  were  not 
sorry.  Since  then,  I  have  been  a  mere  disfigured  piece  of 
funiture  between  you  both;  having  no  eyes,  no  ears,  no  feel- 
ings, :io  remembrances.  Moan  !  Moan  for  what  you  made 
him;  not  for  your  love.  I  tell  you  that  the  time  was,  when 
I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  did  !" 

She  stood  with  her  bright  angry  eyes  confronting  the  wide 
stare,  and  the  set  face;  and  softened  no  more,  when  the 
moaning  was  repeated,  than  if  the  face  had  been  a  picture. 


794  DAVID   COPPERFIELD, 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  said  I,  "  if  you  can  be  so  obdurate  as  not 
to  feel  for  this  afflicted  mother " 

"  Who  feels  for  me  ?"  she  sharply  retorted.  "  She  has 
sown  this.  Let  her  moan  for  the  harvest  that  she  reaps  to  day!" 

"  And  if  his  faults "  I  began. 

"  Faults  !"  she  cried,  bursting  into  passionate  tears. 
"  Who  dares  malign  him  ?  He  had  a  soul  worth  millions  of 
the  friends  to  whom  he  stooped  !" 

*'  No  one  can  have  loved  him  better,  no  one  can  hold  him 
in  dearer  remembrance,  than  I,"  I  replied.  "  I  meant  to  say 
if  you  have  no  compassion  for  his  mother;  or  if  his  faults — 
you  have  been  bitter  on  them " 

"  It's  false,"  she  cried,  tearing  her  black  hair;  **  I  loved  him!" 

" — cannot,"  I  went  on,''  be  banished  from  your  remem- 
brance, in  such  an  hour;  look  at  that  figure,  even  as  one  you 
have  never  seen  before,  and  render  it  some  help  !" 

All  this  time,  the  figure  was  unchanged,  and  looked  un- 
changeable. Motionless,  rigid,  staring;  moaning  in  the 
same  dumb  way  from  time  to  time,  with  the  same  helpless 
motion  of  the  head;  but  giving  no  other  sign  of  life.  Miss 
Dartle  suddenly  kneeled  down  before  it,  and  began  to  loosen 
the  dress. 

"  A  curse  upon  you  !"  she  said,  looking  round  at  me,  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  rage  and  grief.  *'  It  was  in  an  evil 
hour  that  you  ever  came  here  !     A  curse  upon  you  !     Go  !" 

After  passing  out  of  the  room,  I  hurried  back  to  ring  the 
bell,  the  sooner  to  alarm  the  servants.  She  had  then  taken 
the  impassive  figure  in  her  arms,  and,  still  upon  her  knees, 
was  weeping  over  it,  kissing  it,  calling  to  it,  rocking  it  to 
and  fro  upon  her  bosom  like  a  child,  and  trying  every  tender 
means  to  rouse  the  dormant  senses.  No  longer  afraid  of 
leaving  her,  I  noiselessly  turned  back  again;  and  alarmed 
the  house  as  I  went  out. 

Later  in  the  day  I  returned,  and  we  laid  him  in  his 
mother's  room.  She  was  just  the  same,  they  told  me;  Miss 
Dartle  never  left  her;  doctors  were  in  attendance,  many 
things  had  been  tried;  but  she  lay  like  a  statue,  except  for 
the  low  sound  now  and  then. 

I  went  through  the  dreary  house,  and  darkened  the  win- 
dows. The  windows  of  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  I 
darkened'^last.  I  lifted  up  the  leaden  hand,  and  held  it  to 
my  heart  !  and  all  the  world  seemed  death  and  silence, 
broken  only  by  his  mother's  moaning. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  795 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

THE    EMIGRANTS. 

One  thing  more  I  had  to  do  before  yielding  myself  to 
the  shock  of  these  emotions.  It  was  to  conceal  what  had 
occurred  from  those  who  were  going  away  ;  and  to  dismiss 
them  on  their  voyage  in  happy  ignorance.  In  this  no  time 
was  to  be  lost. 

I  took  Mr.  Micawber  aside  that  same  night,  and  confided 
to  him  the  task  of  standing  between  Mr.  Peggotty  and  in- 
telligence of  the  late  catastrophe.  He  zealously  undertook 
to  do  so,  and  to  intercept  any  newspaper  through  which  it 
might,  without  such  precautions,  reach  him. 

"  If  it  penetrates  to  him,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  strik- 
ing himself  on  the  breast,  "  it  shall  first  pass  through  this 
body  !" 

Mr.  Micawber,  I  must  observe,  in  his  adaptation  of  him- 
self to  a  new  state  of  society,  had  acquired  a  bold  bucca- 
neering air,  not  absolutely  lawless,  but  defensive  and  prompt. 
One  might  have  supposed  him  a  child  of  the  wilderness, 
long  accustomed  to  live  out  of  the  confines  of  civilization, 
and  about  to  return  to  his  native  wilds. 

He  had  provided  himself,  among  other  things,  with  a 
complete  suit  of  oil-skin,  and  a  straw-hat  with  a  very  low 
crown,  pitched  or  calked  on  the  outside.  In  this  rough 
clothing,  with  a  common  mariner's  telescope  under  his  arm, 
and  a  shrewd  trick  of  casting  up  his  eye  at  the  sky  as  look- 
ing out  for  dirty  weather,  he  was  far  more  nautical,  after 
his  manner,  than  Mr.  Peggotty.  His  whole  family,  if  I  may 
so  express  it,  were  cleared  for  action.  I  found  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber in  the  closest  and  most  uncompromising  of  bonnets, 
made  fast  under  the  chin  ;  and  in  a  shawl  which  tied  her 
up  (as  I  had  been  tied  up,  when  my  aunt  first  received  me) 
like  a  bundle,  and  was  secured  behind  at  the  waist  in  a 
strong  knot  Miss  Micawber  I  found  made  snug  for  stormy 
weather,  in  the  same  manner ;  with  nothing  superfluous 
about  her.  Master  Micawber  was  hardly  visible  in  a  Guern- 
sey shirt,  and  the  shaggiest  suit  of  slops  I  ever  saw  ;  and 
the  children  were  done  up,  like  preserved  meats,  in  imper- 
vious cases.  Both  Mr.  Micawber  and  his  eldest  son  wore 
their  sleeves  loosely  turned  J^ack  at  the  wrists,  as  being 


796  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ready  to  lend  a  hand  in  any  direction,  and  to  "  tumble  up," 
or  sing  out  "Yeo — Heave — Yeo  !"  on  the  shortest  notice. 

Thus  Traddles  and  I  found  them  at  nightfall,  assembled 
on  the  wooden  steps,  at  that  time  known  as  Hungerford 
Stairs,  watching  the  departure  of  a  boat  with  some  of  their 
property  on  board.  I  had  told  Traddles  of  the  terrible 
event,  and  it  had  greatly  shocked  him  ;  but  there  could  be 
no  doubt  of  the  kindness  of  keeping  it  a  secret,  and  he  had 
come  to  help  me  in  this  last  service.  It  was  here  that  I 
took  Mr.  Micawber  aside,  and  received  his  promise. 

The  Micawber  family  were  lodged  in  a  little,  dirty,  tum- 
ble-down public-house,  which  in  those  days  was  close  to  the 
stairs,  and  whose  protruding  wooden  rooms  overhung  the 
river.  The  family,  as  emigrants,  being  objects  of  some  in- 
terest in  and  about  Hungerford,  attracted  so  many  beholders, 
that  we  were  glad  to  take  refuge  in  their  room.  It  was  one 
of  the  wooden  chambers  up-stairs,  with  the  tide  flowing  un- 
derneath. My  aunt  and  Agnes  were  there,  busily  making 
some  little  extra  comforts,  in  the  way  of  dress,  for  thie 
children.  Peggotty  was  quietly  assisting,  with  the  old  in- 
sensible work-box,  yard  measure,  and  bit  of  wax-candle 
before  her  that  had  now  outlived  so  much. 

It  was  not  easy  to  answer  her  inquiries  ;  still  less  to  whis- 
per Mr.  Peggotty,  when  Mr.  Micawber  brought  him  in,  that 
I  had  given  the  letter,  and  all  was  well.  But  I  did  both, 
and  made  them  happy.  If  I  showed  any  trace  of  what  I 
felt,  my  own  sorrows  were  sufficient  to  account  for  it. 

"  And  when  does  the  ship  sail,  Mr.  Micawber  ?"  asked  my 
aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  considered  it  necessary  to  prepare  either 
my  aunt  or  his  wife,  by  degrees,  and  said,  sooner  than  he 
had  expected  yesterday. 

"  The  boat  brought  you  word,  I  suppose?"  said  my  aunt 

"  It  did,  ma'am,"  he  returned. 

"  Well?"  said  my  aunt.     "  And  she  sails — " 

"  Madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  informed  that  we  must  posi- 
tively be  on  board  before  seven  to-morrow  morning." 

"Heyday!"  said  my  aunt,  "that's  soon.  Is  it  a  sea-going 
fact,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"  'Tis  so,  ma'am.  She'll  drop  down  the  river  with  that 
theer  tide.  If  Mas'r  Davy  and  my  sister  comes  aboard  at 
Gravesen',  arternoon  o'  next  day,  they'll  see  the  last  on  us." 

"  And  that  we  shall  do,"  said  I,  "  be  sure!" 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  797 

"  Until  then,  and  until  we  are  at  sea,"  observed  Mr.  Mic- 
awber,  with  a  glance  of  intelligence  at  me,  "  Mr.  Peggotty 
and  myself  will  constantly  keep  a  double  look-out  together, 
on  our  goods  and  chattels.  Emma,  my  love,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  dealing  his  throat  in  his  magnificent  way,  "my 
friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  is  so  obliging  as  to  solicit,  in 
my  ear,  that  he  should  have  the  privilege  of  ordering  the  in- 
gredients necessary  to  the  composition  of  a  moderate  portion 
of  that  Beverage,  which  is  peculiarly  associated,  in  our 
minds,  with  the  Roast  Beef  of  old  England.  I  allude  to — 
in  short.  Punch.  Under  ordinary  circumstances,  I  should 
scruple  to  entreat  the  indulgence  of  Miss  Trotwood  and  Miss 
Wickfield,  but *' 

"  I  can  only  say  for  myself,"  said  my  aunt,  "  that  I  will 
drink  all  happiness  and  success  to  you,  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
the  utmost  pleasure." 

"  And  I  too!"  said  Agnes,  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Micawber  immediately  descended  to  the  bar,  where 
he  appeared  to  be  quite  at  home;  and  in  due  time  returned 
with  a  steaming  jug.  I  could  not  but  observe  that  he  had 
been  peeling  the  lemons  with  his  own  clasp-knife,  which,  as 
became  the  knife  of  a  practical  settler,  was  about  a  foot 
long;  and  which  he  wiped,  not  wholly  without  ostentation, 
on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  Mrs.  Micawber  and  the  two  elder 
members  of  the  family  I  now  found  to  be  provided  with 
similar  formidable  instruments,  while  every  child  had  its 
own  wooden  spoon  attached  to  its  body  by  a  strong  line.  In 
a  similar  anticipation  of  Hfe  afloat,  and  in  the  Bush,  Mr. 
Micawber,  instead  of  helping  Mrs.  Micawber  and  his  eldest 
son  and  daughter  to  punch,  in  wine-glasses,  which  he  might 
easily  have  done,  for  there  was  a  shelf-full  in  the  room, 
served  it  out  to  them  in  a  series  of  villainous  little  tin  pots  ; 
and  I  never  saw  him  enjoy  anything  so  much  as  drinking 
out  of  his  own  particular  pint  pot,  and  putting  it  in  his 
pocket  at  the  close  of  the  evening. 

"The  luxuries  of  the  old  country,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
with  an  intense  satisfaction  in  their  renouncement,  "  we 
abandon.  The  denizens  of  the  forest  cannot,  of  course,  ex- 
pect to  participate  in  the  refinements  of  the  land  of  the  Free." 

Here  a  boy  came  in  to  say  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  wanted 
down  stairs. 

"I  have  a  presentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  setting 
down  her  tin  pot,  "  that  it  is  a  member  of  my  family!" 


79S  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  If  so,  my  dear,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  usual 
suddenness  of  warmth  on  that  subject,  "as  the  member  of 
your  family — whoever  he,  she,  or  it,  may  be — has  kept  us 
waiting  for  a  considerable  period,  perhaps  the  Member  may 
now  wait  my  convenience." 

'''  Micawber,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  low  tone,  "  at  such  a  time 
as  this—" 

"  *  It  is  not  meet,' "  said  Mr.  Micawber,  rising,  "  '  that 
every  nice  offense  should  bear  its  comment  !'  Emma,  I 
stand  reproved." 

"The  loss,  Micawber,"  observed  his  wife,  "has  been  my 
family's,  not  yours.  If  my  family  are  at  length  sensible  of 
the  deprivation  to  which  their  own  conduct  has,  in  the  past, 
exposed  them,  and  now  desire  to  extend  the  hand  of  fellow- 
ship, let  it  not  be  repulsed." 

"  My  dear,"  he  returned,  "  so  be  it!" 

"  If  not  for  their  sakes;  for  mine,  Micawber,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Emma,"  he  returned,  "  that  view  of  the  question  is  at 
such  a  moment,  irresistible.  I  cannot,  even  now,  distinctly 
pledge  myself  to  fall  upon  your  family's  neck;  but  the  mem- 
ber of  your  family,  who  is  now  in  attendance,  shall  have  no 
genial  warmth  frozen  by  me." 

Mr.  Micawber  withdrew,  and  was  absent  some  little  time; 
in  the  course  of  which  Mrs.  Micawber  was  not  wholly  free 
from  an  apprehension  that  words  might  have  arisen  between 
him  and  the  Member.  At  length  the  boy  re-appeared  and 
presented  me  with  a  note  written  in  pencil,  and  headed,  in 
a  legal  manner,  "  Heep  v.  Micawber."  From  this  docu- 
ment I  learned  that  Mr.  Micawber,  being  again  arrested, 
was  in  a  final  paroxysm  of  despair;  and  that  he  begged 
me  to  send  him  his  knife  and  pint  pot,  by  bearer,  as  they 
might  prove  serviceable  during  tke  brief  remainder  of  his 
existence,  in  jail.  He  also  requested,  as  a  last  act  of  friend- 
ship, that  I  would  see  his  family  to  the  Parish  Workhouse, 
and  forget  that  such  a  Being  ever  lived. 

Of  course  I  answered  this  note  by  going  down  with  the 
boy  to  pay  the  money,  where  I  found  Mr.  Micawber  sitting 
in  a  corner,  looking  darkly  at  the  Sheriff's  Officer  who  had 
effected  the  capture.  On  his  release,  he  embraced  me  with 
the  utmost  fervor;  and  made  an  entry  of  the  transaction  in 
his  pocket-book — being  very  particular,  I  recollect,  about  a 
halfpenny  I  inadvertently  omitted  from  my  statement  of  the 
total. 


DAVID  COPJPERFIELD.  799 

This  momentous  pocket-book  was  a  timely  reminder  to 
him  of  another  transaction.  On  our  return  to  the  room  up- 
stairs (where  he  accounted  for  his  absence  by  saying  that  it 
had  been  occasioned  by  circumstances  over  which  he  had 
no  control),  he  took  out  of  it  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  folded 
small,  and  quite  covered  with  long  sums,  carefully  worked. 
From  the  glimpse  I  had  of  them,  I  should  say  that  I  never 
saw  such  sums  out  of  a  school  ciphering-book.  These,  it 
seemed,  were  calculations  of  compound  interest  on  what  he 
called  "  the  principal  amount  of  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and 
a  half,"  for  various  periods.  After  a  careful  consideration 
of  these,  and  an  elaborate  estimate  of  his  resources,  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  to  select  that  sum  which  represented 
the  amount  with  compound  interest  to  two  years,  fifteen 
calendar  months,  and  fourteen  days  from  that  date.  For 
this  he  had  drawn  a  note-of-hand  with  great  neatness,  which 
he  handed  over  to  Traddles  on  the  spot,  a  discharge  of  his 
debt  in  full  (as  between  man  and  man),  with  many  acknow- 
ledgments. 

"  I  have  still  a  presentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  pen- 
sively shaking  her  head,  "that  my  family  will  appear  on 
board,  before  we  finally  depart." 

Mr.  Micawber  evidently  had  his  presentiment  on  the  sub- 
ject too,  but  he  put  it  in  his  tin  pot  and  swallowed  it. 

"If  you  have  any  opportunity  of  sending  letters  home,  on 
your  passage,  Mrs.  Micawber,"  said  my  aunt,  "  you  must  let 
us  hear  from  you,  you  know," 

"  My  dear  Miss  Trotwood,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  only  be 
too  happy  to  think  that  anyone  expects  to  hear  from  us.  I 
shall  not  fail  to  correspond.  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  trust,  as  an 
old  and  familiar  friend,  will  not  object  to  receive  occasional 
intelligence,  himself,  from  one  who  knew  him  when  the 
twins  were  yet  unconscious?" 

I  said  that  I  should  hope  to  hear,  whenever  she  had  an 
opportunity  of  writing. 

"  Please  Heaven  there  will  be  many  such  opportunities," 
said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  The  ocean,  in  these  times,  is  a  per- 
fect fleet  of  ships;  and  we  can  hardly  fail  to  encounter 
many,  in  running  over.  It  is  merely  crossing,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  trifling  with  his  eye-glass,  "  merely  crossing. 
The  distance  is  quite  imaginary." 

I  think,  now,  how  odd  it  was,  but  how  wonderfully  like 
Mr.  Micawber,  that,  when  he  went  from  London  to  Canter- 


goo  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

bury,  he  should  have  talked  as  if  he  were  going  to  the  farth- 
est limits  of  the  earth;  and  when  he  went  from  England  to 
Australia,  as  if  he  were  going  for  a  little  trip  across  the 
channel. 

"On  the  voyage,  I  shall  endeavor,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
"occasionally  to  spin  them  a  yarn;  and  the  melody  of  my 
son  Wilkins  will,  I  trust,  be  acceptable  at  the  galley-fire. 
When  Mrs.  Micawber  has  her  sea-legs  on — an  expression  in 
which  I  hope  there  is  no  conventional  impropriety — she  will 
give  them,  I  dare  say.  Little  Tafflin.  Porpoises  and  dol- 
phins, I  believe,  will  be  frequently  observed  athwart  our 
Bows;  and,  either  on  the  Starboard  or  Ihe  Larboard  Quarter, 
objects  of  interest  will  be  continually  descried.  In  short," 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  old  genteel  air,  "  the  probabil- 
ity is,  all  will  be  found  so  exciting,  alow  and  aloft,  that  when 
the  look-out,  stationed  in  the  maintop,  cries  Land-ho!  we 
shall  be  very  considerably  astonished!" 

With  that  he  flourished  off  the  contents  of  his  little  tin 
pot,  as  if  he  had  made  the  voyage,  and  had  passed  a  first- 
class  examination  before  the  highest  naval  authorities. 

"  What  /  chiefly  hope,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  is,  that  in  some  branches  of  our  family  we 
may  live  again  in  the  old  country.  Do  not  frown,  Micaw- 
ber! I  do  not  now  refer  to  my  own  family,  but  to  our  chil- 
dren's children.  However  vigorous  the  sapling,"  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  cannot  forget  the  parent- 
tree;  and  when  our  race  attains  to  eminence  and  fortune,  I 
own  I  should  wish  that  fortune  to  flow  into  the  coffers  of 
Britannia." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  Britannia  must  take 
her  chance.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  she  has  never  done 
much  for  me,  and  that  I  have  no  particular  wish  upon  the 
subject." 

"  Micawber,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  there  you  are 
wrong.  You  are  going  out,  Micawber,  to  this  distant  clime, 
to  strengthen,  not  to  weaken,  the  connection  between  your- 
self and  Albion." 

"  The  connection  in  question,  my  love,"  rejoined  Mr.  Mic- 
awber, "has  not  laid  me,  I  repeat,  under  that  load  of  per- 
sonal obligation,  that  I  am  at  all  sensitive  as  to  the  formation 
of  another  connection." 

"  Micawber,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  "  There,  I  again 
«ay,  you  are  wrong.     You  do  not  know  your  power,  Micaw- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  801 

ber.  It  is  that  which  will  strengthen,  even  in  this  step  you  are 
about  to  take,  the  connection  between  yourself  and  Albion." 

Mr.  Micawber  sat  in  his  elbow  chair,  with  his  eyebrows 
raised;  half  receiving  and  half  repudiating  Mrs.  Micawber's 
views  as  they  were  stated,  but  very  sensible  of  their  foresight. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  "  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  I 
wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  feel  his  position.  It  appears  to  me 
highly  important  that  Mr.  Micawber  should,  from  the  hour 
of  his  embarkation,  feel  his  position.  Your  old  knowledge 
of  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  will  have  told  you  that  I 
have  not  the  sanguine  disposition  of  Mr.  Micawber.  My 
disposition  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  eminently  practical.  I  know 
that  this  is  a  long  voyage.  I  know  that  it  will  involve  many 
privations  and  inconveniences.  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to 
those  facts.  But  I  also  know  what  Mr.  Micawber  is.  I 
know  the  latent  power  of  Mr.  Micawber.  And  therefore  I 
consider  it  vitally  important  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  feel 
his  position." 

"  My  love,"  he  observed,  "  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to 
remark  that  it  is  barely  possible  that  I  do  feel  my  position 
at  the  present  moment." 

"  I  think  not,  Micawber,"  she  rejoined.  "  Not  fully.  My 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  Mr.  Micawber's  is  not  a  common  case. 
Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  a  distant  country,  expressly  in 
order  that  he  may  be  fully  understood  and  appreciated  for 
the  first  time.  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  take  his  stand  upon 
that  vessel's  prow,  and  firmly  say,  *  This  country  I  am  come 
to  conquer  !  Have  you  honors  ?  Have  you  riches  ?  Have 
you  posts  of  profitable  pecuniary  emolument  ?  Let  them  be 
brought  forward.     They  are  mine  !* " 

Mr.  Micawber,  glancing  at  us  all,  seemed  to  think  there 
was  a  good  deal  in  this  idea. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber,  if  I  make  myself  understood," 
said  Mrs.  Micawber,  in  her  argumentative  tone,  "  to  be  the 
Caesar  of  his  own  fortunes.  That,  my  dear  Mr.  Copper- 
field,  appears  to  me  to  be  his  true  position.  From  the  first 
moment  of  this  voyage,  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  stand  upon 
that  vessel's  prow  and  say,  *  Enough  of  delay:  enough  of  dis- 
appointment: enough  of  limited  means.  That  was  in  the 
old  country.  This  is  the  new.  Produce  your  reparation. 
Bring  it  forward  !'  " 

Mr.  Micawber  folded  his  arms  in  a  resolute  manner,  as 
if  he  were  then  stationed  on  the  figure-head. 


8o2  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  And  doing  that,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber, — "  feeling  his  pos- 
ition— am  I  not  right  in  saying  that  Mr.  Micawber  will 
strengthen,  and  not  weaken,  his  connection  with  Britain  ? 
An  important  public  character  arising  in  that  hemisphere, 
shall  1  be  told  that  its  influence  will  not  be  felt  at 
home  ?  Can  I  be  so  weak  as  to  imagine  that  Mr,  Micaw- 
ber, wielding  the  rod  of  talent  and  of  power  in  Australia, 
will  be  nothing  in  England  ?  I  am  but  a  woman;  but  I 
should  be  unworthy  of  myself,  and  of  my  papa,  if  I  were 
guilty  of  such  absurd  weakness." 

Mrs.  Micawber's  conviction  that  her  arguments  were  un- 
answerable, gave  a  moral  elevation  to  her  tone  which  I  think 
I  had  never  heard  in  it  before. 

"  And  therefore  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  that  I  the 
more  wish,  that,  at  a  future  period,  we  may  live  again  on 
the  parent  soil.  Mr.  Micawber  may  be — I  cannot  disguise 
from  myself  that  the  probability  is,  Mr.  Micawber  will  be — 
a  page  of  History;  and  he  ought  then  to  be  represented  in 
the  country  which  gave  him  birth,  and  did  no^  give  him  em- 
ployment !" 

*'  My  love,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  "  it  is  impossible  for 
me  not  to  be  touched  by  your  affection.  I  am  always 
willing  to  defer  to  your  good  sense.  What  will  be — will 
be.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  grudge  my  native  country 
any  portion  of  the  wealth  that  may  be  accumulated  by 
our  descendants!" 

"  That's  well,"  said  my  aunt,  nodding  towards  Mr.  Peg- 
gotty,  "  and  I  drink  my  love  to  you  all,  and  every  blessing 
and  success  attend  you!"  * 

Mr.  Peggotty  put  down  the  two  children  he  had  been 
nursing,  one  on  each  knee,  to  join  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber 
in  drinking  to  all  of  us  in  return;  and  when  he  and  the 
Micawbers  cordially  shook  hands  as  comrades,  and  his 
brown  face  brightened  with  a  smile,  I  felt  that  he  would 
make  his  way,  establish  a  good  name,  and  be  beloved,  go 
where  he  would. 

Even  the  children  were  instructed,  each  to  dip  a  wooden 
spoon  into  Mr.  Micawber's  pot,  and  pledge  us  in  its  con- 
tents. When  this  was  done,  my  aunt  and  Agnes  rose,  and 
parted  from  the  emigrants.  It  was  a  sorrowful  farewell. 
They  were  all  crying;  the  children  hung  about  Agnes  to 
the  last;  and  we  left  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  in  a  very  dis- 
tressed condition,  sobbing  and  weeping  by  a  dim  candle, 


DAVID  COPl>ERFlfeLD.  S03 

that  must  have  made  the  room  look,  from  the  river,  like  a 
miserable  light-house. 

I  went  down  again  next  morning  to  see  that  they  were 
away.  They  had  parted,  in  a  boat,  as  early  as  five  o'clock. 
It  was  a  wonderful  instance  to  me  of  the  gap  such  part- 
ings make,  that  although  my  association  of  them  with  the 
tumble-down  public-house  and  the  wooden  stairs  dated  only 
from  last  night,  both  seemed  dreary  and  deserted  now  that 
they  were  gone. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  my  old  nurse  and  I  went 
down  to  Gravesend.  We  found  the  ship  in  the  river  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  boats;  a  favorable  wind  blowing; 
the  signal  for  sailing  at  her  mast-head.  I  hired  a  boat  di- 
rectly, and  we  put  off  to  her;  and  getting  through  the  little 
vortex  of  confusion  of  which  she  was  the  center,  went  on 
board. 

Mr.  Peggotty  was  waiting  for  us  on  deck.  He  told  me 
that  Mr.  Micawber  had  just  been  arrested  again  (and  for 
the  last  time)  at  the  suit  of  Heep,  and  that,  in  compliance 
with  a  request  I  had  made  to  him,  he  had  paid  the  money: 
which  I  repaid  him.  He  then  took  us  down  between  decks; 
and  there,  any  lingering  fears  I  had  of  his  having  heard 
any  rumors  of  what  had  happened,  were  dispelled  by  Mr. 
Micawber's  coming  out  of  the  gloom,  taking  his  arm  with  an 
air  of  friendship  and  protection,  and  telling  me  that  they 
had  scarcely  been  asunder  for  a  moment,  since  the  night 
before  last. 

It  was  such  a  strange  scene  to  me,  and  so  confined  and 
dark,  that,  at  first,  I  could  make  out  hardly  anything;  but, 
by  degrees,  it  cleared,  as  my  eyes  became  more  accus- 
tomed to  the  gloom,  and  I  seemed  to  stand  in  a  picture  by 
OsTADE.  Among  the  great  beams,  bulks,  and  ringbolts  of 
the  ship,  and  the  emigrant  berths,  and  chests,  and  bundles, 
and  barrels,  and  heaps  of  miscellaneous  baggage — lighted 
up,  here  and  there,  by  dangling  lanterns;  and  elsewhere 
by  the  yellow  dayUght  straying  down  a  windsail  or  a  hatch- 
way— were  crowded  groups  of  people,  making  new  friend- 
ships, taking  leave  of  one  another,  talking,  laughing,  crying, 
eating,  and  drinking;  some  already  settled  down  into  the 
possession  of  their  few  feet  of  space,  with  their  little  house- 
holds arranged,  and  tiny  children  established  on  stools,  or 
in  dwarf  elbow-chairs;  others  despairing  of  a  resting-place, 
and  wandering  disconsolately.     From  babies  who  had  but 


So4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

a  week  or  two  of  life  behind  them,  to  crooked  old  men 
and  women  who  seemed  to  have  but  a  week  or  two  of  life 
before  them;  and  from  ploughmen  bodily  carrying  out  soil 
of  England  on  their  boots,  to  smiths  taking  away  samples 
of  its  soot  and  smoke  upon  their  skins;  every  age  and 
occupation  appeared  to  be  crammed  into  the  narrow  com- 
pass of  the  'tween  decks. 

As  my  eye  glanced  round  this  place,  I  thought  I  saw 
sitting,  by  an  open  port,  with  one  of  the  Micawber  chil- 
dren near  her,  a  figure  like  Emily's;  it  first  attracted  my 
attention,  by  another  figure  parting  from  it  with  a  kiss; 
and  as  it  glided  away  through  the  disorder,  reminding  me 
of — Agnes!  But  in  the  rapid  motion  and  confusion,  and 
in  the  unsettlement  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  lost  it  again; 
and  only  knew  that  the  time  was  come  when  all  visitors 
were  being  warned  to  leave  the  ship;  that  my  nurse  was 
crying  on  a  chest  beside  me;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge,  as- 
sisted by  some  younger  stooping  woman  in  black,  was  busily 
arranging  Mr.  Peggotty's  goods. 

"  Is  there  any  last  wured,  Mas'r  Davy?"  said  he.  "  Is 
there  any  one  forgotten  thing  afore  we  parts?'* 

"  One  thing!"  said  I.     "  Martha!" 

He  touched  the  younger  woman  I  have  mentioned  on  the 
shoulder,  and  Martha  stood  before  me. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  you  good  man!"  cried  I.  "You  take 
her  with  you!" 

She  answered  for  him,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  I  could 
speak  no  more,  at  that  time,  but  I  wrung  his  hand;  and  if 
ever  I  have  loved  and  honored  any  man,  I  loved  and  hon- 
ored that  man  in  my  soul. 

The  ship  was  clearing  fast  of  strangers.  The  greatest 
trial  that  I  had,  remained.  I  told  him  what  the  noble  spirit 
that  was  gone,  had  given  me  in  charge  to  say  at  parting. 
It  moved  him  deeply.  But  when  he  charged  me,  in  return, 
with  many  messages  of  affection  and  regret  for  those  deaf 
ears,  he  moved  me  more. 

The  time  was  come.  I  embraced  him,  took  my  weeping 
nurse  upon  my  arm,  and  hurried  away.  On  deck,  I  took 
leave  of  poor  Mrs.  Micawber.  She  was  looking  distractedly 
about  for  her  family,  even  then;  and  her  last  words  to  me 
were,  that  she  never  would  desert  Mr.  Micawber. 

We  went  over  the  side  into  our  boat,  and  lay  at  a  little 
distance  to  see  the  ship  wafted  in  her  course.     It  was  then 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  805 

calm,  radiant  sunset.  She  lay  between  us  and  the  red  light; 
and  every  taper  line  and  spar  was  visible  against  the  glow. 
A  sight  at  once  so  beautiful,  so  mournful,  and  so  hopeful,  as 
the  glorious  ship,  lying,  still,  on  the  flushed  water,  with  all 
the  life  on  board  her  crowded  at  the  bulwarks,  and  there 
clustering,  for  a  moment,  bare-headed  and  silent,  I  never 
saw. 

Silent,  only  for  a  moment.  As  the  sails  rose  to  the  wind, 
and  the  ship  began  to  move,  there  broke  from  all  the  boats 
three  resounding  cheers,  which  those  on  board  took  up,  and 
echoed  back,  and  which  were  echoed  and  re-echoed.  My 
heart  burst  out  when  I  heard  the  sound,  and  beheld  the 
waving  of  the  hats  and  handkerchiefs — and  then  I  saw 
her. 

Then  I  saw  her  at  her  uncle's  side,  and  trembling  on 
his  shoulder.  He  pointed  to  us  with  an  eager  hand;  and 
she  saw  us,  and  waved  her  last  good-bye  to  me.  Ay, 
Emily,  beautiful  and  drooping,  cling  to  him  with  the  utmost 
trust  of  thy  bruised  heart;  for  he  has  clung  to  thee  with 
all  the  might  of  his  great  love! 

Surrounded  by  the  rosy  light,  and  standing  high  upon 
the  deck,  apart  together,  she  clinging  to  him,  and  he  hold- 
ing her,  they  solemnly  passed  away.  The  night  had  fallen 
on  the  Kentish  hills  when  we  were  rowed  ashore — and  fallen 
darkly  upon  me, 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

ABSENCE. 

It  was  a  long  and  gloomy  night  that  gathered  on  me, 
haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  many  hopes,  of  many  dear  re- 
membrances, many  errors,  many  unavailing  sorrows  and  re- 
grets. 

I  went  away  from  England;  not  knowing,  even  then,  how 
great  the  shock  was  that  I  had  to  bear.  I  left  all  who  were 
dear  to  me,  and  went  away;  and  believed  that  I  had  borne 
it,  and  it  was  past.  As  a  man  upon  a  field  of  battle  will  re- 
ceive a  mortal  hurt,  and  scarcely  know  that  he  is  struck,  so 
I,  when  I  was  left  alone  with  my  undisciplined  heart,  had 
no  conception  of  the  wound  with  which  it  had  to  strive. 

The  knowledge  came  upon  me,  not  quickly,  but  little  by 
little,  and  grain  by  grain.     The  desolate  feeling  with  which 


8o6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  went  abroad,  deepened  and  widened  hourly.  At  first  it 
was  a  heavy  sense  of  loss  and  sorrow,  wherein  I  could  dis- 
tinguish little  else.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  it  became  a 
hopeless  consciousness  of  all  that  I  had  lost — love,  friend- 
ship, interest;  of  all  that  had  been  shattered — my  first  trust, 
my  first  affection,  the  whole  airy  castle  of  my  life;  of  all 
that  remained — a  ruined  blank  and  waste  lying  wide  around 
me,  unbroken,  to  the  dark  horizon. 

If  my  grief  was  selfish,  I  did  not  know  it  to  be  so.  I 
mourned  for  my  child- wife,  taken  from  her  blooming  world, 
so  young.  I  mourned  for  him  who  might  have  won  the  love 
and  admiration  of  thousands,  as  he  had  won  mine  long  ago. 
I  mourned  for  the  broken  heart  that  had  found  rest  in  the 
stormy  sea;  and  for  the  wandering  remnants  of  the  simple 
home,  where  I  had  heard  the  night-wind  blowing,  when  I 
was  a  child.  > 

From  the  accumulated  sadness  into  which  I  fell,  I  had  at 
length  no  hope  of  ever  issuing  again.  I  roamed  from  place 
to  place,  carrying  my  burden  with  me  everywhere.  I  felt 
its  whole  weight  now;  and  I  drooped  beneath  it,  and  I  said 
in  my  heart  that  it  could  never  be  lightened. 

When  this  despondency  was  at  its  worst,  I  believed  that  I 
should  die.  Sometimes  I  thought  that  I  would  like  to  die 
at  home;  and  actually  turned  back  on  my  road  that  I  might 
get  there  soon.  At  other  times  I  passed  on  farther  away, 
from  city  to  city,  seeking  I  knew  not  what,  and  trying  to 
leave  I  know  not  what  behind. 

It  is  not  in  my  power  to  retrace,  one  by  one,  all  the  weary 
phases  of  distress  of  mind  through  which  I  passed.  There 
are  some  dreams  that  can  only  be  imperfectly  and  vaguely 
described;  and  when  I  oblige  myself  to  look  back  on  this 
time  of  my  life,  I  seem  to  be  recalling  such  a  dream.  I  see 
myself  passing,  on  among  the  novelties  of  foreign  towns, 
palaces,  cathedrals,  temples,  pictures,  castles,  tombs,  fantas- 
tic streets — the  old  abiding  places  of  History  and  Fancy — 
as  a  dreamer  might;  bearing  my  painful  load  through  all, 
and  hardly  conscious  of  the  objects  as  they  fade  before  me. 
Listlessness  to  everything,  but  brooding  sorrow,  was  the 
night  that  fell  on  my  undisciplined  heart.  Let  me  look  up 
from  it — as  at  last  I  did,  thank  Heaven  ! — and  from  its  long, 
sad,  wretched  dream,  to  dawn. 

For  many  months  I  traveled  with  this  ever-darkening 
cloud  upon  my  mind.     Some  blind  reasons  that  I  had  for 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  807 

not  returning  home — reasons  then  struggling  within  me, 
vainly  for  more  distinct  expression — kept  me  on  my  pilgrim- 
age. Sometimes,  I  had  proceeded  restlessly  from  place  to 
place,  stopping  nowhere;  sometimes,  I  had  lingered  long  in 
one  spot.  I  had  had  no  purpose,  no  sustaining  soul  within 
me  anywhere. 

I  was  in  Switzerland.  I  had  come  out  of  Italy,  over  one 
of  the  great  passes  of  the  Alps,  and  had  since  wandered 
with  a  guide  among  the  by-ways  of  the  mountains.  If 
those  awful  solitudes  had  spoken  to  my  heart,  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  had  found  sublimity  and  wonder  in  the  dread 
heights  and  precipices,  in  the  roaring  torrents,  and  the 
wastes  of  ice  and  snow;  but  as  yet,  they  had  taught  me 
nothing  else. 

I  came,  one  evening  before  sunset,  down  into  a  valley, 
where  I  was  to  rest.  In  the  course  of  my  descent  to  it, 
by  the  winding  track  along  the  mountain-side,  from  which 
I  saw  it  shining  far  below,  I  think  some  long-unwonted 
sense  of  beauty  and  tranquillity,  some  softening  influence 
awakened  by  its  peace,  moved  faintly  in  my  breast.  I 
remember  pausing  once,  with  a  kind  of  sorrow  that  was 
not  all  oppressive,  not  quite  despairing.  I  remember 
almost  hoping  that  some  better  change  was  possible  with- 
in me. 

I  came  into  the  valley,  as  the  evening  sun  was  shining  on 
the  remote  heights  of  snow,  that  closed  it  in,  like  eternal 
clouds.  The  bases  of  the  mountains  forming  the  gorge  in 
which  the  little  village  lay,  were  richly  green  ;  and  high 
above  this  gentler  vegetation,  grew  forests  of  dark  fir,  cleav- 
ing the  wintry  snow-drift,  wedge-like,  and  stemming  the 
avalanche.  Above  these,  were  range  upon  range  of  craggy 
steeps,  grey  rock,  bright  ice,  and  smooth  verdure-specks  of 
pasture,  all  gradually  blending  with  the  crowning  snow. 
Dotted  here  and  there  on  the  mountain's  side,  each  tiny  dot 
a  home,  were  lonely  wooden  cottages,  so  dwarfed  by  the 
towering  heights  that  they  appeared  too  small  for  toys. 
So  did  even  the  clustered  village  in  the  valley,  with  its 
wooden  bridge  across  the  stream,  where  the  stream  tumbled 
over  broken  rocks,  and  roared  away  among  the  trees.  In 
the  quiet  air,  there  was  a  sound  of  distant  singing — shep- 
herd voices  ;  but  as  one  bright  evening  cloud  floated  mid- 
way along  the  mountain's-side,  I  could  almost  have  believed 
it  came  from  there,  and  was  not  earthly  music.     All  at  once. 


«o8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  this  serenity,  great  Nature  spoke  to  me ;  and  soothed  me 
to  lay  down  my  weary  head  upon  the  grass,  and  weep  as  I 
had  not  wept  yet,  since  Dora  died  ! 

I  had  found  a  packet  of  letters  awaiting  me  but  a  few 
minutes  before,  and  had  strolled  out  of  the  village  to  read 
them  while  my  supper  was  making  ready.  Other  packets 
had  missed  me,  and  I  had  received  none  for  a  long  time. 
Beyond  a  line  or  two,  to  say  that  I  was  well,  and  had  ar- 
rived at  such  a  place,  I  had  not  had  fortitude  or  constancy 
to  write  a  letter  since  I  left  home. 

The  packet  was  in  my  hand.  I  opened  it,  and  read  the 
writing  of  Agnes. 

She  was  happy  and  useful,  was  prospering  as  she  had 
hoped.  That  was  all  she  told  me  of  herself.  The  rest  re- 
ferred to  me. 

She  gave  me  no  advice  ;  she  urged  no  duty  on  me  ;  she 
only  told  me,  in  her  own  fervent  manner  what  her  trust  in 
me  was.  She  knew  (she  said)  how  such  a  nature  as  mine 
would  turn  affliction  to  good.  She  knew  how  trial  and 
emotion  would  exalt  and  strengthen  it.  She  was  sure  that 
in  my  every  purpose  I  should  gain  a  firmer  and  a  higher 
tendency,  through  the  grief  I  had  undergone.  She,  who  so 
gloried  in  my  fame,  and  so  looked  forward  to  its  augmenta- 
tion, well  knew  that  I  would  labor  on.  She  knew  that  in 
me,  sorrow  could  not  be  weakness,  but  must  be  strength. 
As  the  endurance  of  my  childish  days  had  done  its  part  to 
make  me  what  I  was,  so  greater  calamities  would  nerve  me 
on,  to  be  yet  better  than  I  was;  and  so  as  they  had  taught 
me  would  I  teach  others.  She  commended  me  to  God,  who 
had  taken  my  innocent  darling  to  His  rest ;  and  in  her  sisterly 
affection  cherished  me  always,  and  was  always  at  my  side  go 
where  I  would  ;  proud  of  what  I  had  done,  but  infinitely 
prouder  yet  of  what  I  was  reserved  to  do. 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  breast,  and  thought  what  had  I 
been  an  hour  ago  !  When  I  heard  the  voices  die  away,  and 
saw  the  quiet  evening  cloud  grow  dim,  and  all  the  colors  in  the 
valley  fade,  and  the  golden  snow  upon  the  mountain  tops  be- 
come a  remote  part  of  the  pale  night  sky,  yet  felt  that  the 
night  was  passing  from  my  mind,  and  all  its  shadows  clear- 
ing, there  was  no  name  for  the  love  I  bore  her,  dearer  to  me, 
henceforward,  than  ever  until  then. 

I  read  her  letter  many  times.  I  wrote  to  her  before  1 
slept.     I  told  her  that  I  had  been  in  sore  need  of  her  help  ; 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  809 

that  without  her  I  was  not,  and  I  never  had  been,  what  she 
thought  me  ;  but  that  she  inspired  me  to  be  that,  and 
I  would  try. 

I  did  try.  In  three  months  more,  a  year  would  have  pass- 
ed since  the  beginning  of  my  sorrow.  I  determined  to 
make  no  resolutions  until  the  expiration  of  those  three 
months,  but  to  try.  I  lived  in  that  valley,  and  its  neigh- 
borhood, all  the  time. 

The  three  months  gone,  I  resolved  to  remain  away  from 
home  for  some  time  longer  ;  to  settle  myself  for  the  present 
in  Switzerland,  which  was  growing  dear  to  me  in  the  re- 
membrance of  that  evening  ;  to  resume  my  pen  ;  to  work. 
I  resorted  humbly  whither  Agnes  had  commended  me  ;  I 
sought  out  Nature,  never  sought  in  vain  ;  and  I  admitted  to 
my  breast  the  human  interest  I  had  lately  shrunk  from.  It 
was  not  long  before  I  had  almost  as  many  friends  in  the 
valley  as  in  Yarmouth  ;  and  when  I  left  it,  before  the  win- 
ter set  in,  for  Geneva,  and  came  back  in  the  spring,  their 
cordial  greetings  had  a  homely  sound  to  me,  although  they 
were  not  conveyed  in  English  words. 

I  worked  early  and  late,  patiently  and  hard.  I  wrote  a 
Story,  with  a  purpose  growing,  not  remotely,  out  of  my  ex- 
perience, and  sent  it  to  Traddles,  and  he  arranged  for  its 
publication  very  advantageously  for  me;  and  the  tidings  of 
my  growing  reputation  began  to  reach  me  from  travelers 
whom  I  encountered  by  chance.  After  some  rest  and  change, 
I  fell  to  work,  in  my  old  ardent  way,  on  a  new  fancy  which 
took  strong  possession  of  me.  As  I  advanced  in  the  execu- 
tion of  this  task,  I  felt  it  more  and  more,  and  roused  my 
utmost  energies  to  do  it  well.  This  was  my  third  work  of 
fiction.  It  was  not  half  written,  when,  in  an  interval  of 
rest,  I  thought  of  returning  home. 

For  a  long  time,  though  studying  and  working  patiently,  I 
had  accustomed  myself  to  robust  exercise.  My  health, 
severely  impaired  when  I  left  England,  was  quite  restored. 
I  had  seen  much.  I  had  been  in  many  countries,  and  I 
hope  I  had  improved  my  store  of  knowledge. 

I  have  now  recalled  all  that  I  think  it  needful  to  recall 
here,  of  this  term  of  absence — with  one  reservation.  I  have 
made  it,  thus  far,  with  no  purpose  of  suppressing  any  of  my 
thoughts;  for  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  this  narrative  is  my 
written  memory.  I  have  desired  to  keep  the  most  secret 
current  of  my  mind  apart,  and  to  the  last.  I  enter  on  it  now. 


8io  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  cannot  so  completely  penetrate  the  mystery  of  my  own 
heart,  as  to  know  when  I  began  to  think  that  I  might  have 
set  its  earliest  and  brightest  hopes  on  Agnes.  I  cannot  say 
at  what  stage  of  my  grief  it  first  became  associated  with  the 
reflection,  that,  in  my  wayward  boyhood,  I  had  thrown  away 
the  treasure  of  her  love.  I  believe  I  may  have  heard  some 
whisper  of  that  distant  thought,  in  the  old  unhappy  loss  or 
want  of  something  never  to  be  realized,  of  which  I  had  been 
sensible.  But  the  thought  came  into  my  mind  as  a  new  re- 
proach and  new  regret,  when  I  was  left  so  sad  and  lonely  in 
the  world. 

If  at  that  time  I  had  been  much  with  her,  I  should,  in 
the  weakness  of  my  desolation,  have  betrayed  this.  It  was 
what  I  remotely  dreaded  when  I  was  first  impelled  to  stay 
away  from  England.  I  could  not  have  borne  to  lose  the 
smallest  portion  of  her  sisterly  affection;  yet,  in  that  be- 
trayal, I  should  set  a  constraint  between  us  hitherto  un- 
known. 

I  could  not  forget  that  the  feeling  with  which  she  now  re- 
garded me  had  grown  up  in  my  own  free  choice  and  course. 
That  if  she  had  ever  loved  me  with  another  love — and  I 
sometimes  thought  the  time  was  when  she  might  have  done 
so — I  had  cast  it  away.  It  was  nothing,  now,  that  I  had  ac- 
customed myself  to  think  of  her,  when  we  were  both  mere 
children,  as  one  who  was  far  removed  from  my  wild  fancies. 
I  had  bestowed  my  passionate  tenderness  upon  another  ob- 
ject; and  what  I  might  have  done,  I  had  not  done;  and 
what  Agnes  was  to  me,  I  and  her  own  noble  heart  had  made 
her. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  change  that  gradually  worked  in 
me,  when  I  tried  to  get  a  better  understanding  of  myself 
and  be  a  better  man,  I  did  glance,  through  some  indefinite 
probation,  to  a  period  when  I  might  possibly  hope  to  cancel 
the  mistaken  past,  and  to  be  so  blessed  as  to  marry  her. 
But  as  time  wore  on,  this  shadowy  prospect  faded,  and  de- 
parted from  me.  If  she  had  ever  lo>'ed  me,  then  I  should 
hold  her  the  more  sacred;  remembering  the  confidences  I 
had  reposed  in  her,  her  knowledge  of  my  errant  heart,  the 
sacrifice  she  must  have  made  to  be  my  friend  and  sister,  and 
the  victory  she  had  won.  If  she  had  never  loved  me,  could 
I  believe  that  she  would  love  me  now? 

I  had  always  felt  my  weakness,  in  comparison  with  her 
constancy  and  fortitude;  and  now  I  felt  it  more  and  more, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  8ii 

Whatever  I  might  have  been  to  her,  or  she  to  me,  if  I  had 
been  more  worthy  of  her  long  ago,  I  was  not  now,  and  she 
was  not.  The  time  was  past.  I  had  let  it  go  by,  and  had 
deservedly  lost  her. 

That  I  suffered  much  in  these  contentions,  that  they  filled 
me  with  unhappiness  and  remorse,  and  that  I  had  a  sustain- 
ing sense  that  it  was  required  of  me,  in  right  and  honor,  to 
keep  away  from  myself,  with  shame,  the  thought  of  turning 
to  the  dear  girl  in  the  withering  of  my  hopes,  from  whom  I 
had  frivolously  turned  when  they  were  bright  and  fresh — 
which  consideration  was  at  the  root  of  every  thought  I  had 
concerning  her — is  all  equally  true.  I  made  no  effort  to 
conceal  from  myself,  now,  that  I  loved  her,  that  I  was  de- 
voted to  her;  but  I  brought  the  assurance  home  to  myself, 
that  it  was  now  too  late,  and  that  our  long-subsisting  rela- 
tion must  be  undisturbed. 

I  had  thought,  much  and  often,  of  my  Dora's  shadowing 
out  to  me  what  might  have  happened,  in  those  years  that 
were  destined  not  to  try  us:  I  had  considered  how  the  things 
that  never  happen,  are  often  as  much  realities  to  us,  in  their 
effects,  as  those  that  are  accomplished.  The  very  years  she 
spoke  of,  were  realities  now,  for  my  correction;  and  would 
have  been,  one  day,  a  little  later  perhaps,  though  we  had 
parted  in  our  earliest  folly.  I  endeavored  to  convert  what 
might  have  been  between  myself  and  Agnes,  into  a  means 
of  making  me  more  self-denying,  more  resolved,  more  con- 
scious of  myself,  and  my  defects  and  errors.  Thus,  through 
the  reflection  that  it  might  have  been,  I  arrived  at  the  con- 
viction that  it  could  never  be. 

These,  with  their  perplexities  and  inconsistencies,  were 
the  shifting  quicksands  of  my  mind,  from  the  time  of  my 
departure  to  the  time  of  my  return  home,  three  years  after- 
wards. Three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  sailing  of  the 
emigrant  ship;  when  at  the  same  hour  of  sunset,  and  in  the 
same  place,  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the -packet  vessel  that 
brought  me  home,  looking  on  the  rosy  water  where  I  had 
seen  the  image  of  that  ship  reflected. 

Three  years.  Long  in  the  aggregate,  though  short  as  they 
went  by.  And  home  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  Agnes  too — 
but  she  was  not  mine — she  was  never  to  be  mine.  She 
might  have  been,  but  that  was  past ! 


812  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

RETURN. 

I  LANDED  in  London  on  a  wintry  autumn  evening.  It 
was  dark  and  raining,  and  I  saw  more  fog  and  mud  in  a 
minute  than  I  had  seen  in  a  year.  I  walked  from  the  Custom 
House  to  the  Monument  before  I  found  a  coach;  and 
although  the  very  house-fronts,  looking  on  the  swollen  gut- 
ters, were  like  old  friends  to  me,  I  could  not  but  admit  that 
they  were  very  dingy  friends. 

I  have  often  remarked — I  suppose  everybody  has — that 
one's  going  away  from  a  familiar  place,  would  seem  to  be 
the  signal  for  change  in  it.  As  I  looked  out  of  the  coach- 
window,  and  observed  that  an  old  house  on  Fish-street  Hill, 
which  had  stood  untouched  by  painter,  carpenter,  or  brick- 
layer, for  a  century,  had  been  pulled  down  in  my  absence; 
and  that  a  neighboring  street,  of  time-honored  insalubrity 
and  inconvenience,  was  being  drained  and  widened;  I  half 
expected  to  find  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  looking  older. 

For  some  changes  in  the  fortunes  of  my  friends,  •  I  was 
prepared.  My  aunt  had  been  re-established  at  Dover,  and 
Traddles  had  begun  to  get  into  some  little  practice  at  the 
Bar,  in  the  very  first  term  after  my  departure.  He  had 
chambers  in  Gray's  Inn,  now;  and  had  told  me,  in  his  last 
letters,  that  he  was  not  without  hopes  of  being  soon  united 
to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world. 

They  expected  me  home  before  Christmas;  but  had  no 
idea  of  my  returning  so  soon.  I  had  purposely  misled  them, 
that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  them  by  surprise. 
And  yet  I  was  perverse  enough  to  feel  a  chill  and  disap- 
pointment in  receiving  no  welcome,  and  rattling,  alone  and 
silent,  through  the  misty  streets. 

The  well-known  shops,  however,  with  their  cheerful  lights, 
did  something  for  me;  and  when  I  alighted  at  the  door  of 
the  Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house,  I  had  recovered  my  spirits. 
It  recalled,  at  first,  that  so-different  time  when  I  had  put  up 
at  the  Golden  Cross,  and  reminded  me  of  the  changes  that 
had  come  to  pass  since  then;  but  that  was  natural. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Traddles  lives  in  the  Inn  ?"  I 
asked  the  waiter,  as  I  warmed  myself  by  the  coffee-room 
fire. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  813 

**Holborn  Court,  sir.     Number  two." 

"  Mr.  Traddles  has  |i  rising  reputation  among  the  lawyers, 
I  believe  ?"  said  I. 

"Well,  sir,"  returned  the  waiter,  *' probably  he  has,  sir; 
but  I  am  not  aware  of  it  myself." 

This  waiter,  who  was  middle  aged  and  spare,  looked  for 
help  to  a  waiter  of  more  authority — a  stout,  potential  old 
man,  with  a  double  chin,  in  black  breeches  and  stockings, 
who  came  out  of  a  place  like  a  church-warden's  pew,  at  the 
end  of  the  coffee-room,  where  he  kept  company  with  a  cash 
box,  a  Directory,  a  Law-list,  and  other  books  and  papers. 

"  Mr.  Traddles,"  said  the  spare  waiter.  "  Number  two  in 
the  court." 

The  potential  waiter  waved  him  away,  and  turned  gravely 
to  me. 

"I  was  inquiring,"  said  I,  "whether  Mr.  Traddles  at 
number  two  in  the  court,  has  not  a  rising  reputation  among 
the  lawyers  ?" 

"  Never  heard  his  name,"  said  the  water  in  a  rich,  husky 
voice. 

I  felt  quite  apologetic  for  Traddles. 

"  He's  a  young  man,  sure  ?"  said  the  portentous  waiter, 
fixing  his  eyes  severely  on  me.  "  How  long  has  he  been  h 
the  Inn  ?" 

"  Not  above  three  years,"  said  I. 

The  waiter, who  I  supposed  had  lived  in  his  church-warden's 
pew  for  forty  years,  could  not  pursue  such  an  insignificant 
subject.     He  asked  me  what  1  would  have  for  dinner  ? 

I  felt  I  was  in  England  again,  and  really  was  quite  cast 
down  on  Traddles's  account.  There  seemed  to  be  no  hope 
for  him.  I  meekly  ordered  a  bit  of  fish  and  a  steak,  and 
stood  before  the  fire  musing  on  his  obscurity. 

As  I  followed  the  chief  waiter  with  my  eyes,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  the  garden  in  which  he  had  gradually 
blown  to  be  the  flower  he  was,  was  an  arduous  place  to  rise 
in.  It  had  such  a  prescriptive,  stiff-necked,  long-established, 
solemn,  elderly  air.  I  glanced  about  the  room,  which  had  its 
sanded  floor  sanded,  no  doubt,  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
when  the  chief  waiter  was  a  boy — if  he  ever  was  a  boy,  which 
appeared  improbable;  and  at  the  shining  tables,  where  I 
saw  myself  reflected  in  the  unruffled  depths  of  old  mahogany; 
and  at  the  lamps,  without  a  flaw  in  their  trimming  or  clean- 
ing; and  at  the  comfortable  green  curtains,  with  their  pure 


8i4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

brass  rods,  snugly  enclosing  the  boxes;  and  at  the  two  large 
coal  fires,  brightly  burning;  and  at  jthe  rows  of  decanters, 
burly  as  with  the  consciousness  of  pipes  of  expensive  old 
port  wine  below;  and  both  England  and  the  law  appeared 
to  me  to  be  very  difficult  indeed  to  be  taken  by  storm.  I 
went  up  to  my  bed-room  to  change  my  wet  clothes;  and  the 
vast  extent  of  that  old  wainscotted  apartment  (which  was 
over  the  archway  leading  to  the  Inn,  I  remember),  and  the 
sedate  immensity  of  the  four-post  bedstead,  and  the  indom- 
itable gravity  of  the  chests  of  drawers,  all  seemed  to  unite  in 
sternly  frowning  on  the  fortunes  of  Traddles,  or  on  any 
such  daring  youth.  I  came  down  again  to  my  dinner;  and 
even  the  slow  comfort  of  the  meal,  and  the  orderly  silence 
of  the  place — which  was  bare  of  guests,  the  Long  Vacation 
not  yet  being  over — were  eloquent  on  the  audacity  of  Trad- 
dles, and  his  small  hopes  of  a  livelihood  for  twenty  years  to 
come. 

I  had  seen  nothing  like  this  since  I  went  away,  and  it  quite 
dashed  my  hopes  for  my  friend.  The  chief  waiter  had  had 
enough  of  me.  He  came  near  me  no  more;  but  devoted 
himself  to  an  old  gentleman  in  long  gaiters,  to  meet  whom  a 
pint  of  special  port  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  cellar  of  its 
own  accord,  for  he  gave  no  order.  The  second  waiter  in- 
formed me,  in  a  whisper,  that  this  old  gentleman  was  a  re- 
tired conveyancer  living  in  the  Square,  and  worth  a  mint 
of  money,  which  it  was  expected  he  would  leave  to  his  laun- 
dress's daughter;  likewise  that  it  was  rumored  that  he  had 
a  service  of  plate  in  a  bureau,  all  tarnished  with  lying  by, 
though  more  than  one  spoon  and  fork  had  never  yet  been 
beheld  in  his  chambers  by  mortal  vision.  By  this  time,  I 
quite  gave  Traddles  up  for  lost;  and  settled  in  my  own 
mind  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him. 

Being  very  anxious  to  see  the  dear  old  fellow,  nevertheless. 
I  despatched  my  dinner  in  a  manner  not  at  all  calculated  to 
raise  me  in  the  opinion  of  the  chief  waiter,  and  hurried  out 
by  the  back  way.  Number  two  in  the  Court  was  soon  reached; 
and  an  inscription  on  the  door-post  informing  me  that  Mr. 
Traddles  occupied  a  set  of  chambers  on  the  top  story,  I 
ascended  the  staircase.  A  crazy  old  staircase  I  found  it  to  be, 
feebly  lighted  on  each  landing  by  a  club -headed  little  oil  wick, 
dying  away  in  a  little  dungeon  of  dirty  glass. 

In  the  course  of  my  stumbling  up-stairs,  I  fancied  I  heard 
a  pleasant  sound  of  laughter:  and  not  the  laughter  of  an  at"- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  815 

tomey  or  barrister,  or  attorney's  clerk  or  barrister's  clerk, 
but  of  two  or  three  merry  girls.  Happening,  however,  as  I 
stopped  to  listen,  to  put  my  foot  in  a  hole  where  the  Honor- 
able Society  of  Gray's  Inn  had  left  a  plank  deficient,  I  fell 
down  with  some  noise,  and  when  I  recovered  my  footing  all 
was  silent. 

Groping  my  way  more  carefully  for  the  rest  of  the  journey, 
my  heart  beat  high  when  I  found  the  outer  door,  which  had 
Mr.  Traddles  painted  on  it,  open.  I  knocked.  A  consid- 
erable scuffling  within  ensued,  but  nothing  else.  I  therefore 
knocked  again. 

A  small  sharp-looking  lad,  half  foot-boy  and  half  clerk, 
who  was  very  much  out  of  breath,  but  who  looked  at  me  as 
if  he  defied  me  to  prove  it  legally,  presented  himself. 

"  Is  Mr.  Traddles  within  ?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  he's  engaged." 

"  I  want  to  see  him." 

After  a  moment's  survey  of  me,  the  sharp-looking  lad  de- 
cided to  let  me  in;  and  opening  the  door  wider  for  that  pur- 
pose, admitted  me,  first,  into  a  little  closet  of  a  hall,  and  next 
into  a  little  sitting  room;  where  I  came  into  the  presence  of 
my  old  friend  (also  out  of  breath),  seated  at  a  table,  and 
bending  over  papers. 

"Good  God  !"  cried  Traddles,  looking  up.  "It's Copper- 
field  !"  and  rushed  into  my  arms,  where  I  held  him  tight. 

"  All  well,  my  dear  Traddles  ?" 
"All  well,  my  dear,  dear  Copperfield,  and  nothing  but  good 
news!"  ^ 

We  cried  with  pleasure,  both  of  us. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Traddles,  rumpling  his  hair  in  his 
excitement,  which  was  a  most  unnecessary  operation,  "  my 
dearest  Copperfield,  my  long-lost  and  most  welcome  friend, 
how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  How  brown  you  are  !  How  glad 
I  am  !  Upon  my  life  and  honor,  I  never  was  so  rejoiced,  my 
beloved  Copperfield,  never  !" 

I  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  express  my  emotions.  I  was  quite 
unable  to  speak,  at  first. 

"  My  dear  fellow  !"  said  Traddles.  "  And  grown  so  famous! 
My  glorious  Copperfield  !  Good  gracious  me,  wken  did 
you  come,  where  have  you  come  from,  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?" 

Never  pausing  for  an  answer  to  anything  he  said,  Trad' 
dies,  who  had  clapped  me  into  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  all 


8i6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

this  time  impetuously  stirred  the  fire  with  one  hand,  and 
pulled  at  my  neckerchief  with  the  other,  under  some  wild 
delusion  that  it  was  a  great-coat.  Without  putting  down  the 
poker,  he  now  hugged  me  again;  and  I  hugged  him;  and, 
both  laughing,  and  both  wiping  our  eyes,  we  both  sat  down, 
and  shook  hands  across  the  hearth. 

"  To  think,"  said  Traddles,  "  that  you  should  have  been 
so  nearly  coming  home  as  you  must  have  been,  my  dear  old 
boy,  and  not  at  the  ceremony  !" 

"  What  ceremony,  my  dear  Traddles  ?" 

"  Good  gracious  me  !"  cried  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes  in 
his  old  way.     "  Didn't  you  get  my  last  letter  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  if  it  referred  to  any  ceremony." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  sticking  hia 
hair  upright  with  both  hands,  and  then  putting  his  hands  on 
my  knees,  "  I  am  married  !" 

"  Married  !"  I  cried,  joyfully. 

"  Lord  bless  me,  yes  !"  said  Traddles — "  by  the  Reverend 
Horace — to  Sophy — down  in  Devonshire.  Why,  my  dear 
boy,  she's  behind  the  window  curtain  !     Look  here  !  " 

To  my  amazement,  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world  came  at 
that  same  instant,  laughing  and  blushing,  from  her  place  of 
concealment.  And  a  more  cheerful,  amiable,  honest,  happy, 
bright-looking  bride,  I  believe  (as  I  could  not  help  saying 
on  the  spot)  the  world  never  saw.  I  kissed  her  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance should,  and  wished  them  joy  with  all  my  might 
of  heart. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Traddles,  "  what  a  delightful  re-union 
this  is  !  You  are  so  extremely  brown,  my  dear  Copperfield  ! 
God  bless  my  soul,  how  happy  I  am  !" 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  L 

"And  I  am  sure  I  am!"  said  the  blushing  and  laughing 
Sophy. 

'*  We  are  all  as  happy  as  possible!"  said  Traddles.  "  Even 
the  girls  are  happy.     Dear  me,  I  declare  I  forgot  them!" 

"Forgot!"  said  L 

"  The  girls,"  said  Traddles.  "  Sophy's  sisters.  They  are 
staying  with  us.  They  have  come  to  have  a  peep  at  London. 
The  fact  is,  when — was  it  you  that  tumbled  up-stairs,  Cop- 
perfield r 

"  It  was,"  said  I  laughing. 

"  Well  then,  when  you  tumbled  up-stairs,"  said  Traddles, 
**  I  was  romping  with  the  girls.    In  point  of  fact,  we  were 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  817 

playing  at  Puss  in  the  Corner.     But  as  that  wouldn't  do  in 

Westminster  Hall,  and  as  it  wouldn't  look  quite  professional 
if  they  were  seen  by  a  client,  they  decamped.  And  they  are 
now — listening,  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Traddles,  glancing  at 
the  door  of  another  room. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  I,  laughing  afresh,  "  to  have  occasioned 
such  a  dispersion." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  rejoined  Traddles,  greatly  delighted, 
**  if  you  had  seen  them  running  away,  and  running  back 
again,  after  you  had  knocked,  to  pick  up  the  combs  they  had 
dropped  out  of  their  hair,  and  going  on  in  the  maddest  man- 
ner, you  wouldn't  have  said  so.  My  love,  will  you  fetch  the 
girls  ?" 

Sophy  tripped  away,  and  we  heard  her  received  in  the  ad- 
joining room  with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Really  musical,  isn't  it,  my  dear  Copperfield  ?"  said 
Traddles.  *'  It's  very  agreeable  to  hear.  It  quite  lights  up 
these  old  rooms.  To  an  unfortunate  bachelor  of  a  fellow 
who  has  lived  alone  all  his  Hfe,  you  know,  it's  positively 
delicious.  It's  charming.  Poor  things,  they  have  had 
a  great  loss  in  Sophy — who,  I  do  assure  you,  Copperfield, 
is,  and  ever  was,  the  dearest  girl! — and  it  gratifies  me 
beyond  expression  to  find  them  in  such  good  spirits.  The 
society  of  girls  is  a  very  delightful  thing,  Copperfield.  It's 
not  professional,  but  it's  very  delightful." 

Observing  that  he  slightly  faltered,  and  comprehending 
that  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart  he  was  fearful  of  giving  me 
some  pain  by  what  he  had  said  I  expressed  my  concurrence 
with  a  heartiness  that  evidently  relieved  and  pleased  him 
greatly. 

"  But  then,"  said  Traddles,  "  our  domestic  arrangements 
are,  to  say  the  truth,  quite  unprofessional  altogether,  my 
dear  Copperfield.  Even  Sophy's  being  here  is  unprofession- 
al. And  we  have  no  other  place  of  abode.  We  have  put  to 
sea  in  a  cockboat,  but  we  are  quite  prepared  to  rough  it. 
And  Sophy's  an  extraordinary  manager!  You'll  be  surprised 
how  those  girls  are  stowed  away.  I  am  sure  I  hardly  know 
how  it's  done." 

"Are  many  of  the  young  ladies  with  you  ?"  I  inquired. 

"The  eldest,  the  Beauty,  is  here,"  said  Traddles,  in  a  low, 
confidential  voice — "  Caroline.  And  Sarah's  here — the  one  I 
mentioned  to  you  as  having  something  the  matter  with 
her  spine,  you  know.     Immensely  beUer!    And  the  two 


8i8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

youngest  that  Sophy  educated  are  with  us.  And  Louisa's 
here." 

"Indeed!"  cried  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  Traddles.  "  Now  the  whole  set — I  mean  the 
chambers — is  only  three  rooms;  but  Sophy  arranges  for  the 
girls  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  and  they  sleep  as  comfort- 
ably as  possible.  Three  in  that  room,"  said  Traddles,  point- 
ing.    "  Two  in  that." 

I  could  not  help  glancing  round,  in  search  of  the  accom- 
modation remaining  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Traddles.  Traddles 
understood  me. 

"Well!"  said  Traddles,  "we  are  prepared  to  rough  it,  as 
I  said  just  now;  and  we  ^/^  improvise  a  bed  last  week,  upon 
the  floor  here.  But  there's  a  little  room  in  the  roof — a  very 
nice  room,  when  you're  up  there — which  Sophy  papered  her- 
self, to  surprise  me;  and  that's  our  room  at  present.  It's 
a  capital  little  gipsy  sort  of  place.  There's  quite  a  view 
from  it." 

"And  you  are  happily  married  at  last,  my  dear  Traddles!" 
said  I.     "  How  rejoiced  I  am!" 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  as  we 
shook  hands  once  more.  "  Yes,  I  am  as  happy  as  it's  pos- 
sible to  be.  There's  your  old  friend,  you  see,"  said  Trad- 
dles, nodding  triumphantly  at  the  flower-pot  and  stand; 
"  and  there's  the  table  with  the  marble  top!  All  the  other 
furniture  is  plain  and  serviceable,  you  perceive.  And  as 
to  plate.  Lord  bless  you,  we  haven't  so  much  as  a  tea- 
spoon." 

"  All  to  be  earned  ?"  said  I,  cheerfully. 

"  Exactly  so,"  replied  Traddles,  "  all  to  be  earned.  Of 
course  we  have  something  in  the  shape  of  tea-spoons,  be- 
cause we  stir  our  tea.     But  they're  Britannia  metal." 

"  The  silver  will  be  the  brighter  when  it  comes,"  said  I. 

"The  very  thing  we  say!"  cried  Traddles.  "  You  see, 
my  dear  Copperfield,"  falling  again  into  the  low  confidential 
tone,  "  after  I  had  delivered  my  argument  in  Doe  dent. 
JiPES  versus  Wigzell,  which  did  me  great  service  with  the 
profession,  I  went  down  into  Devonshire,  and  had  some 
serious  conversation  in  private  with  the  Reverend  Horace. 
I  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  Sophy — who  I  do  assure  you, 
Copperfield,  is  the  dearest  girl! " 

*'  I  am  certain  she  is!"  said  I. 

'* She  is,  indeed!"  rejoined  Traddles.     "But  I  am  afraid 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  819 

I  am  wandering  from  the  subject.  Did  I  mention  the  Rev- 
erend Horace?" 

"  You  said  that  you  dwelt  upon  the  fact " 

"True!  Upon  the  fact  that  Sophy  and  I  had  been  en- 
gaged for  a  long  period,  and  that  Sophy,  with  the  permis- 
sion of  her  parents,  was  more  than  content  to  take  me — in 
short,"  said  Traddles,  with  his  old  frank  smile,  "  on  our 
present  Britannia-metal  footing.  Very  well.  I  then  pro- 
posed to  the  Reverend  Horace — who  is  a  most  excellent 
clergyman,  Copperfield,  and  ought  to  be  a  Bishop;  or  at 
least  ought  to  have  enough  to  live  upon  without  pinching 
himself — that  if  I  could  turn  the  corner,  say  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  in  one  year;  and  could  see  my  way  pretty 
clearly  to  that,  or  something  better,  next  year;  and  could 
plainly  furnish  a  little  place  like  this,  besides;  then,  and  in 
that  case,  Sophy  and  I  should  be  united.  I  took  the  liberty 
of  representing  that  we  had  been  patient  for  a  good  many 
years;  and  that  the  circumstance  of  Sophy's  being  extraor- 
dinarily useful  at  home,  ought  not  to  operate  with  her  af- 
fectionate parents  against  her  establishment  in  life — don't 
you  see?"* 

"  Certainly  it  ought  not,"  said  I. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,  Copperfield,"  rejoined  Traddles, 
"  because,  without  any  imputation  on  the  Reverend  Horace, 
I  do  think  parents,  and  brothers,  and  so  forth,  are  some- 
times rather  selfish  in  such  cases.  Well!  I  also  pointed  out 
that  my  most  earnest  desire  was  to  be  useful  to  the  family; 
and  that  if  I  got  on  in  the  world  and  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  him — I  refer  to  the  Reverend  Horace " 

"  I  understand,"  said  I. 

"  — Or  to  Mrs.  Crewler — it  would  be  the  utmost  gratifica- 
tion of  my  wishes  to  be  a  parent  to  the  girls.  He  replied 
in  a  most  admirable  manner,  exceedingly  flattering  to  my  feel- 
ings, and  undertook  to  obtain  the  consent  of  Mrs.  Crewler 
to  this  arrangement.  They  had  a  dreadful  time  of  it  with 
her.  It  mounted  from  her  legs  into  her  chest,  and  then  in- 
to her  head " 

"  What  mounted?"  I  asked. 

"  Her  grief,"  replied  Traddles,  with  a  serious  look.  "  Her 
feelings  generally.  As  I  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion, 
she  is  a  very  superior  woman,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  her 
limbs.  Whatever  occurs  to  harass  her  usually  settles  in  her 
legs;  but  on  this  occasion  it  mounted  to  the  chest,  and  then 


820  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

to  the  head,  and,  in  short,  pervaded  the  whole  system  in  a 
most  alarming  manner.  However,  they  brought  her  through 
it  by  unremitting  and  affectionate  attention;  and  we  were 
married  yesterday  six  weeks.  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
monster  I  felt,  Copperfield,  when  I  saw  the  whole  family 
crying  and  fainting  away  in  every  direction!  Mrs.  Crewler 
couldn't  see  me  before  we  left — couldn't  forgive  me,  then, 
for  depriving  her  of  her  child — but  she  is  a  good  creature, 
and  has  done  so  since.  I  had  a  delightful  letter  from  her 
only  this  morning." 

*  And  in  short,  my  dear  friend,"  said  I,  "  you  feel  as  blest 
as  you  deserve  to  feel!" 

*'  Oh!  That's  your  partiality!"  laughed  Traddles.  "  But, 
indeed,  I  am  in  a  most  enviable  state.  I  work  hard,  and 
read  law  insatiably.  I  get  up  at  five  every  morning,  and 
don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  hide  the  girls  in  the  day-time,  and 
make  merry  with  them  in  the  evening.  And  I  assure  you  I 
am  quite  sorry  that  they  are  going  home  on  Tuesday,  which 
is  the  day  before  the  first  day  of  Michaelmas  Term.  But 
here,"  said  Traddles,  breaking  off  his  confidence  and  speak- 
ing aloud,  "  are  the  girls!  Mr.  Copperfield,  Miss  Crewler — 
Miss  Sarah — Miss  Louisa — Margaret  and  Lucy!" 

They  were  a  perfect  nest  of  roses;  they  looked  so  whole- 
some and  fresh.  They  were  all  pretty,  and  Miss  Caroline 
was  very  handsome;  but  there  was  a  loving,  cheerful,  fire- 
side quality  in  Sophy's  bright  looks,  which  was  better  than 
that,  and  which  assured  me  that  my  friend  had  chosen  well. 
We  all  sat  round  the  fire;  while  the  sharp  boy,  who  I  now 
divined  had  lost  his  breath  in  putting  the  papers  out,  cleared 
them  away  again,  and  produced  the  tea-things.  After  that 
he  retired  for  the  night,  shutting  the  outer  door  upon  us 
with  a  bang.  Mrs.  Traddles,  with  perfect  pleasure  and  com- 
posure beaming  from  her  household  eyes,  having  made  the 
tea,  then  quietly  made  the  toast  as  she  sat  in  a  corner  by 
the  fire. 

She  had  seen  Agnes,  she  told  me  while  she  was  toasting. 
"  Tom  "  had  taken  her  down  into  Kent  for  a  wedding  trip, 
and  there  she  had  seen  my  aunt,  too;  and  both  my  aunt  and 
Agnes  were  well,  and  they  had  all  talked  of  nothing  but 
me.  "  Tom  "  had  never  had  me  out  of  his  thoughts,  she 
really  believed,  all  the  time  I  had  been  away.  "  Tom  "  was 
the  authority  for  everything.  "  Tom  "  was  evidently  the 
idol  of  her  life;  never  to  be  shaken  on  his  pedestal  by  any 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  821 

commotion;  always  to  be  believed  in,  and  done  homage  to 
with  the  whole  faith  of  her  heart,  come  what  might. 

The  deference  which  both  she  and  Traddles  showed  to- 
wards the  Beauty,  pleased  me  very  much.  I  don't  know 
that  I  thought  it  very  reasonable;  but  I  thought  it  very 
delightful,  and  essentially  a  part  of  their  character.  If 
Traddles  ever  for  an  instant  missed  the  teaspoons  that  were 
still  to  be  won,  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  when  he  handed  the 
Beauty  her  tea.  If  his  sweet-tempered  wife  could  have  got 
up  any  self-assertion  against  any  one,  I  am  satisfied  it  could 
only  have  been  because  she  was  the  Beauty's  sister.  A  few 
slight  indications  of  a  rather  petted  and  capricious  manner, 
which  I  observed  in  the  Beauty,  were  manifestly  considered, 
by  Traddles  and  his  wife,  as  her  birthright  and  natural  en- 
dowment. If  she  had  been  born  a  Queen  Bee,  and  they 
laboring  Bees,  they  could  not  have  been  more  satisfied  of  that. 

But  their  self-forgetfulness  charmed  me.  Their  pride  in 
these  girls,  and  their  submission  of  themselves  to  all  their 
whims,  was  the  pleasantest  little  testimony  to  their  own 
worth  I  could  have  desired  to  see.  If  Traddles  was  ad- 
dressed as  "a  darling,"  once  in  the  course  of  that  evening; 
and  besought  to  bring  something  here,  or  carry  something 
there,  or  take  something  up,  or  put  something  down,  or  find 
something,  or  fetch  something;  he  was  so  addressed  by  one 
or  other  of  his  sisters-in-law,  at  least  twelve  times  in  an  hour. 
Neither  could  they  do  anything  without  Sophy.  Somebody's 
hair  fell  down,  and  nobody  but  Sophy  could  put  it  up. 
Somebody  forgot  how  a  particular  tune  went,  and  nobody 
but  Sophy  could  hum  that  tune  right.  Somebody  wanted  to 
recall  the  name  of  a  place  in  Devonshire,  and  only  Sophy 
knew  it.  Something  was  wanted  to  be  written  home,  and 
Sophy  alone  could  be  trusted  to  write  before  breakfast  in  the 
morning.  Somebody  broke  down  in  a  piece  of  knitting,  and 
no  one  but  Sophy  was  able  to  put  the  defaulter  in  the  right  di- 
rection. They  were  entire  mistresses  of  the  place,  and  Sophy 
and  Traddles  waited  on  them.  How  many  children  Sophy 
could  have  taken  care  of  in  her  time,  I  can't  imagine;  but 
she  seemed  to  be  famous  for  knowing  every  sort  of  song 
that  ever  was  addressed  to  a  child  in  the  English  tongue; 
and  she  sang  dozens  to  order  with  the  clearest  little  voice 
in  the  world,  one  after  another  (every  sister  issuing  direc- 
tions for  a  different  tune,  and  the  beauty  generally  striking 
in  last,)  so  that  I  was  quite  fascinated.     The  best  of  all  was, 


822  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

that,  in  the  midst  of  their  exactions,  all  the  sisters  had  a 
great  tenderness  and  respect  both  for  Sophy  and  Traddles. 
I  am  sure,  when  I  took  my  leave,  and  Traddles  was  coming 
out  to  walk  with  me  to  the  coffee-house,  I  thought  I  had 
never  seen  an  obstinate  head  of  hair,  or  any  other  head  of 
hair,  rolling  about  in  such  a  shower  of  kisses. 

Altogether  it  was  a  scene  I  could  not  help  dwelling  on 
with  pleasure,  for  a  long  time  after  I  got  back  and  had  wished 
Traddles  good  night.  If  I  had  beheld  a  thousand  roses 
blowing  in  a  top  set  of  chambers  in  that  withered  Gray's 
Inn,  they  could  not  have  brightened  it  half  so  much.  The 
idea  of  those  Devonshire  girls  among  the  dry  law-station- 
er's and  the  attorneys'  offices;  and  of  the  tea  and  toast,  and 
children's  songs,  in  that  grim  atmosphere  of  pounce  and 
parchment,  red  tape,  dusty  wafers,  ink-jars,  brief  and  draft 
paper,  law  reports,  writs,  declarations,  and  bills  of  costs; 
seemed  almost  as  pleasantly  fanciful  as  if  I  had  dreamed  that 
the  Sultan's  famous  family  had  been  admitted  on  the  roll 
of  attorneys,  and  had  brought  the  talking  bird,  the  sing- 
ing tree,  and  the  golden  water  into  Gray's  Inn  Hall.  Some- 
how, I  found  that  I  had  taken  leave  of  Traddles  for  the 
night,  and  come  back  to  the  coffee-house,  with  a  great  change 
in  my  despondency  about  him.  I  began  to  think  he  would  get 
on,  in  spite  of  all  the  many  orders  of  chief  waiters  in  England. 

Drawing  a  chair  before  one  of  the  coffee-room  fires  to 
think  about  him  at  my  leisure,  I  gradually  fell  from  the  con- 
sideration of  his  happiness  to  tracing  prospects  in  the  live 
coals,  and  to  thinking,  as  they  broke  and  changed,  of  the 
principal  vicissitudes  and  separations  that  had  marked  my 
life.  I  had  not  seen  a  coal  fire  since  I  had  left  England 
three  years  ago  ;  though  many  a  wood  fire  had  I  watched  as 
it  crumbled  into  hoary  ashes  and  mingled  with  the  feathery 
heap  upon  the  hearth,  which  not  inaptly  figured  to  me,  in 
my  despondency,  my  own  ciead  hopes. 

I  could  think  of  the  past  now,  gravely,  but  not  bitterly  ; 
and  could  contemplate  the  future  in  a  brave  spirit.  Home, 
in  its  best  sense,  was  for  me  no  more.  She  in  whom  I 
might  have  inspired  a  dearer  love  I  had  taught  to  be  my 
sister.  She  would  marry,  and  would  have  new  claimants  on 
her  tenderness  ;  and  in  doing  it,  would  never  know  the  love 
for  her  that  had  grown  up  in  my  heart.  It  was  right  that  I 
should  pay  the  forfeit  of  my  headlong  passion.  What  I 
reaped  I  had  sown. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  823 

I  was  thinking,  and  had  I  truly  disciplined  my  heart  ta 
this,  and  could  I  resolutely  bear  it,  and  calmly  hold  the 
place  in  her  home  which  she  had  calmly  held  in  mine — 
when  I  found  my  eyes  resting  on  a  countenance  that  might 
have  risen  out  of  the  fire,  in  its  association  with  my  early 
remembrances. 

Little  Mr.  Chillip  the  Doctor,  to  whose  good  offices  I  was 
indebted  in  the  very  first  chapter  of  this  history,  sat  read- 
ing a  newspaper  in  the  shadow  of  an  opposite  corner.  He 
was  tolerably  stricken  in  years  by  this  time  ;  but  being  a 
mild,  meek,  calm  little  man,  had  worn  so  easily,  that  I 
thought  he  looked  at  that  moment  just  as  he  might  have 
looked  when  he  sat  in  our  parlor,  waiting  for  me  to  be 
born. 

Mr.  Chillip  had  left  Blunderstone  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
and  I  had  never  seen  him  since.  He  sat  placidly  perusing 
the  newspaper,  with  his  little  head  on  one  side,  and  a  glass 
of  warm  sherry  negus  at  his  elbow.  He  was  so  extremely 
conciliatory  in  his  manner  that  he  seemed  to  apologize  to 
the  very  newspaper  for  taking  the  liberty  of  reading  it. 

I  walked  up  to  where  he  was  sitting  and  said,  "How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Chillip  ?" 

He  was  greatly  flattered  by  this  unexpected  address  from 
a  stranger,  and  replied,  in  his  slow  way,  "  I  thank  you,  sir, 
you  are  very  good.     Thank  you,  sir.    I  hope  you  are  well." 

"You  don't  remember  me?"  said  I. 

"Well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  smiling  very  meekly, 
and  shaking  his  head  as  he  surveyed  me,  "  I  have  a  kind  of 
an  impression  that  something  in  your  countenance  is  fam- 
iliar to  me,  sir  ;  but  I  couldn't  lay  my  hand  upon  your  name, 
really." 

"  And  yet  you  knew  it,  long  before  I  knew  it  myself,"  1 
returned. 

"  Did  I  indeed,  sir  ?"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  I  had  the  honor,  sir,  of  officiating  when ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"  Dear  me  !"  cried  Mr.  Chillip.  "  But  no  doubt  you  are 
a  good  deal  changed  since  then,  sir  ?" 

"  Probably,"  said  I. 

"Well,  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Chillip,  "I  hope  you'll  excuse 
me,  if  I  am  compelled  to  ask  the  favor  of  your  name  ?" 

On  my  telling  him  my  name,  he  was  really  moved.  He 
quite  shook  hands  with  me — which  was  a  violent  proceed- 


524  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ing  for  him,  his  usual  course  being  to  slide  a  tepid  little 
fish-slice,  an  inch  or  two  in  advance  of  his  hip,  and  evince 
the  greatest  discomposure  when  anybody  grappled  with  it. 
Even  now  he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat  pocket  as  soon  as  he 
could  disengage  if,  and  seemed  relieved  when  he  had  got  it 
safe  back. 

"  Dear  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  surveying  me  with  his 
head  on  one  side.  "And  it's  Mr.  Copperfield,  is  it  ?  Well, 
sir,  I  think  I  should  have  known  you,  if  I  had  taken  the 
liberty  of  looking  more  closely  at  you.  There's  a  strong 
resemblance  between  you  and  your  poor  father,  sir." 

"  I  never  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  my  father,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"  Very  true,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  a  soothing  tone. 
"  And  very  much  to  be  deplored  it  was,  on  all  accounts ! 
We  are  not  ignorant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  slowly  shaking 
his  little  head  again,  "  down  in  our  part  of  the  country,  of 
your  fame.  There  must  be  great  excitement  here,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Chillip,  tapping  himself  on  the  forehead  with  his  fore- 
finger.    "You  must  find  it  a  trying  occupation,  sir  !" 

"  What  is  your  part  of  the  country  now  ?"  I  asked,  seat- 
ing myself  near  him. 

"  I  am  established  within  a  few  miles  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "Mrs.  Chillip,  coming  into  a  little 
property  in  that  neighborhood,  under  her  father's  will,  I 
bought  a  practice  down  there,  in  which  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear  I  am  doing  well.  My  daughter  is  growing  quite  a  tall 
lass  now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  giving  his  little  head  another 
little  shake.  "  Her  mother  let  down  two  tucks  in  her  frocks 
only  last  week.      Such  is  time,  you  see,  sir  !" 

As  the  little  man  put  his  now  empty  glass  to  his  lips, 
when  he  made  this  reflection,  I  proposed  to  him  to  have  it 
refilled,  and  I  would  keep  him  company  with  another. 
"  Well,  sir,"  he  returned,  in  his  slow  way,  "  it's  more  than  I 
am  accustomed  to;  but  I  can't  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of 
your  conversation.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I  had  the 
honor  of  attending  you  in  the  measles.  You  came  through 
them  charmingly,  sir!" 

I  acknowledged  this  compliment,  and  ordered  the  negus, 
which  was  soon  produced.  "  Quite  an  uncommon  dissipa- 
tion!" said  Mr.  Chillip,  stirring  it,  "  but  I  can't  resist  so  ex- 
traordinary an  occasion.     You  have  no  family,  sir?" 

I  shook  my  head. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  825 

**  I  was  aware  that  you  sustained  a  bereavement,  sir,  some 
time  ago,"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "  I  heard  it  from  your  father- 
in-law's  sister.     Very  decided  character  there,  sir?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  I,  ''  decided  enough.  Where  did  you 
see  her,  Mr.  ChiUip?" 

"  Are  you  not  aware,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  with  his 
placidest  smile,  "  that  your  father-in-law  is  a  neighbor  of 
mine?" 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  He  is  indeed,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "  Married  a  young 
lady  of  that  part,  with  a  very  good  little  property,  poor 
thing. — And  this  action  of  the  brain  now,  sir?  Don't  you 
find  it  fatigue  you?"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  looking  at  me  like  an 
admiring  Robin. 

I  waived  that  question,  and  returned  to  the  Murdstones. 
*'  I  was  aware  of  his  being  married  again.  Do  you  attend 
the  family?"  I  asked. 

*'  Not  regularly.  I  have  been  called  in,"  he  replied. 
"  Strong  phrenological  development  of  the  organ  of  firm- 
ness in  Mr.  Murdstone  and  his  sister,  sir." 

I  replied  with  such  an  expressive  look  that  Mr.  Chillip 
was  emboldened  by  that,  and  the  negus  together,  to  give  his 
head  several  short  shakes,  and  thoughtfully  exclaim,  "  Ah, 
dear  me!     We  remember  old  times,  Mr.  Copperfield!" 

''And  the  brother  and  sister  are  pursuing  their  old  course, 
are  they?"  said  I. 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Chillip,  "  a  medical  man,  being 
so  much  in  families,  ought  to  have  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for 
anything  but  his  profession.  Still,  I  must  say,  they  are  very 
severe,  sir:  both  as  to  this  life  and  the  next." 

"  The  next  will  be  regulated  without  much  reference  to 
them,  I  dare  say,"  I  returned;  "  what  are  they  doing  as  to 
this?" 

Mr.  Chillip  shook  his  head,  stirred  his  negus,  and  sipped  it. 

"She  was  a  charming  woman,  sir!"  he  observed  in  a 
plaintive  manner. 

*'  The  present  Mrs.  Murdstone^** 

"  A  charming  woman  indeed,  sir,'*  said  Mr.  Chillip;  "  as 
amiable,  I  am  sure,  as  it  was  possible  to  be!  Mrs.  Chillip's 
opinion  is,  that  her  spirit  has  been  entirely  broken  since  her 
marriage,  and  that  she  is  all  but  melancholy  mad.  And  the 
ladies,"  observed  Mr.  Chillip,  timorously.  '*are  great  ob- 
servers, sir.* 


826  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  I  suppose  she  was  to  be  subdued  and  broken  to  their 
detestable  mold,  Heaven  help  her!"  said  I.  "  And  she 
has  been." 

"  Well,  sir,  there  were  violent  quarrels  at  first,  I  assure 
you,"  said  Mr.  Chillip;  **  but  she  is  quite  a  shadow  now. 
Would  it  be  considered  forward  if  I  was  to  say  to  you,  sir, 
in  confidence,  that  since  the  sister  came  to  help,  the  brother 
and  sister  between  them  have  nearly  reduced  her  to  a  state 
of  imbecility." 

I  told  him  I  could  easily  believe  it. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  fortify- 
ing himself  with  another  sip  of  negus,  "  between  you  and 
me,  that  her  mother  died  of  it — or  that  tyranny,  gloom,  and 
worry,  have  made  Mrs.  Murdstone  nearly  imbecile.  She 
was  a  lively  young  woman,  sir,  before  marriage,  and  their 
gloom  and  austerity  destroyed  her.  They  go  about  with 
her,  now,  more  like  her  keepers  than  her  husband  and  sister- 
in-law.  That  was  Mrs.  Chillip's  remark  to  me  only  last 
week.  And  I  assure  you,  sir,  the  ladies  are  great  observers. 
And  Mrs.  Chillip  herself  is  sl  great  observer." 

"  Does  he  gloomily  profess  to  be  (I  am  ashamed  to  use 
the  word  in  such  association)  religious  still?"  I  inquired. 

"  You  anticipate,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  his  eyelids  getting 
quite  red  with  the  unwonted  stimulus  in  which  he  was  in- 
dulging. "  One  of  Mrs.  Chillip's  most  impressive  remarks. 
Mrs.  Chillip,"  he  proceeded,  in  the  calmest  and  slowest  man- 
ner, "  quite  electrined  me,  by  pointing  out  that  Mr.  Murd- 
stone sets  up  an  image  of  himself,  and  calls  it  the  Divine 
Nature.  You  might  have  knocked  me  down  on  the  flat  of 
my  back,  sir,  with  the  feather  of  a  pen,  I  assure  you,  when 
Mrs.  Chillip  said  so.  The  ladies  are  great  observers, 
sir?" 

"  Intuitively,"  said  I,  to  his  extreme  delight. 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  receive  such  support  in  my  opinion, 
sir,"  he  rejoined.  "  It  is  not  often  that  I  venture  to  give  a 
non-medical  opinion,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Murdstone  deliv- 
ers public  addresses  sometimes,  and  it  is  said — in  short,  sir, 
it  is  said  by  Mrs.  Chillip — that  the  darker  tyrant  he  has  lately 
been,  the  more  ferocious  is  his  doctrine." 

"  I  believe  Mrs.  Chillip  to  be  perfectly  right,"  said  I. 

"  Mrs.  Chillip  does  go  so  far  as  to  say,"  pursued  the  meek- 
est of  little  men,  much  encouraged,  "  that  what  such  people 
miscall    their  religion,   is    a   vent  for   their    bad   humors 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  S27 

and  arrogance.  And  do  you  know,  I  must  say,  sir,"  he  con- 
tinued, mildly  laying  his  head  on  one  side,  "  that  I  don'/ find 
authority  for  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment?" 

'*  I  never  found  it  either,"  said  I. 

"  In  the  meantime,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  "  they  are  much 
disliked;  and  as  they  are  very  free  in  consigning  everybody 
who  disHkes  them  to  perdition,  we  really  have  a  good  deal 
of  perdition  going  on  in  our  neighborhood.  However,  as 
Mrs.  Chillip  says,  sir,  they  undergo  a  continual  punishment; 
for  they  are  turned  inward,  to  feed  upon  their  own  hearts, 
and  their  own  hearts  are  very  bad  feeding.  Now,  sir,  about 
that  brain  of  yours,  if  you'll  excuse  my  returning  to  it. 
Don't  you  expose  it  to  a  good  deal  of  excitement,  si*-?" 

I  found  it  not  difficult,  in  the  excitement  of  Mr.  Chillip's 
own  brain,  under  his  potations  of  negus,  to  divert  his  atten- 
tion from  this  topic  to  his  own  affairs,  on  which,  for  the  next 
half-hour,  he  was  quite  loquacious;  giving  me  to  understand, 
among  other  pieces  of  information,  that  he  was  then  at  the 
Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house,  to  lay  his  professional  evidence 
before  a  Commission  of  Lunacy,  touching  the  state  of  mind 
of  a  patient  who  had  become  deranged  from  excessive 
drinking. 

"  And  I  assure  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  am  extremely  ner- 
vous on  such  occasions.  I  could  not  support  being  what  is 
called  bullied,  sir.  It  would  quite  unman  me.  Do  you  know 
it  was  some  time  before  I  recovered  the  conduct  of  that 
alarming  lady,  on  the  night  of  your  birth,  Mr.  Copperfield.^" 

I  told  him  that  I  was  going  down  to  my  aunt,  the  Dragon 
of  that  night,  early  in  the  morning;  and  that  she  was  one  of 
the  most  tender-hearted  and  excellent  of  women,  as  he  would 
know  full  well  if  he  knew  her  better.  The  mere  notion  of 
the  possibility  of  his  ever  seeing  her  again,  appeared  to  ter- 
rify him.  He  replied,  with  a  small,  pale  smile,  "  Is  she  so, 
indeed,  sir?  Really?"  and  almost  immediately  called  for  a 
candle,  and  went  to  bed,  as  if  he  were  not  quite  safe  anywhere 
else.  He  did  not  actually  stagger  under  the  negus;  but  I 
should  think  his  placid  Httle  pulse  must  have  made  two  or 
three  more  beats  in  a  minute,  than  it  had  done  since  the 
great  night  of  my  aunt's  disappointment,  when  she  struck  at 
him  with  her  bonnet. 

Thoroughly  tired,  I  went  to  bed,  too,  at  midnight;  passed 
the  next  day  on  the  Dover  coach;  burst  safe  and  sound 


S28  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

into  my  aunt's  old  parlor  while  she  was  at  tea  (she  wore 
spectacles  now);  and  was  received  by  her,  and  Mr.  Dick, 
and  dear  old  Peggotty,  who  acted  as  housekeeper,  with  open 
arms  and  tears  of  joy.  My  aunt  was  mightily  amused,  when 
we  began  to  talk  composedly,  by  my  account  of  my  meeting 
with  Mr.  Chillip,  and  of  his  holding  her  in  such  dread  re- 
membrance; and  both  she  and  Peggotty  had  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  my  poor  mother's  second  husband,  and  "  that 
murdering  woman  of  a  sister,"  on  whom  I  think  no  pain  or 
penalty  would  have  induced  my  aunt  to  bestow  any  Chris- 
tian or  proper  name,  or  any  other  designation. 

CHAPTER     LX. 

AGNES. 

Mv  aunt  and  I,  when  we  were  left  alone,  talked  far  into 
the  night.  How  the  emigrants  never  wrote  home,  otherwise 
than  cheerfully  and  hopefully;  how  Mr.  Micawber  had  act- 
ually remitted  divers  small  sums  of  money,  on  account  of 
those  *'  pecuniary  liabilities,"  in  reference  to  which  he  had 
been  so  business-like  as  between  man  and  man;  how  Janet, 
returning  into  my  aunt's  service  when  she  came  back  to 
Dover,  had  finally  carried  out  her  renunciation  of  mankind 
by  entering  into  wedlock  with  a  thriving  tavern-keeper,  and 
how  my  aunt  had  finally  set  her  seal  on  the  same  great  prin- 
ciple, by  aiding  and  abetting  the  bride,  and  crowning  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  with  her  presence;  were  among  our  topics — 
already  more  or  less  familiar  to  me  through  the  letters  I  had 
had.  Mr.  Dick,  as  usual,  was  not  forgotten.  My  aunt  in- 
formed me  how  he  incessantly  occupied  himself  in  copying 
everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  and  kept  King  Charles 
the  First  at  a  respectful  distance  by  that  semblance  of  em- 
ployment; how  it  was  one  of  the  main  joys  and  rewards  of 
her  life  that  he  was  free  and  happy,  instead  of  pining  in 
monotonous  restraint;  and  how  (as  a  novel  general  conclu- 
sion) nobody  but  she  could  ever  fully  know  what  he  was. 

"  And  when,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  patting  the  back  of  my 
hand,  as  we  sat  in  our  old  way  before  the  fire,  **  when  are  you 
going  over  to  Canterbury  ?" 

"  I  shall  get  a  horse,  and  ride  over  to-morrow  morning, 
aunt,  unless  you  will  go  with  me  ?" 

"  No  !"  said  my  aunt,  in  her  short,  abrupt  way.  **  I  mean 
to  stay  where  I  am." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  S29 

Then  I  should  ride,  I  said.  I  could  not  have  come  through 
Canterbury  to-day  without  stopping,  if  I  had  been  coming  to 
any  one  but  her 

She  was  pleased,  but  answered,  "  Tut,  Trot;  nifold  bones 
would  have  kept  till  to-morrow  !"  and  softly  patted  my  hand 
again,  as  I  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  fire. 

Thoughtfully,  for  I  could  not  be  here  once  more,  and  so 
near  Agnes,  without  the  revival  of  those  regrets  with  which  I 
had  so  long  been  occupied.  Softened  regrets  they  might  be, 
teaching  me  what  T  had  failed  to  learn  when  my  younger 
life  was  all  before  me,  but  not  the  less  regrets.  *^  Oh,  Trot," 
I  seemed  to  hear  my  aunt  say  once  more;  and  I  understood 
her  better  now — "  Blind,  blind,  bUnd  !" 

We  both  kept  silence  for  some  minutes.  When  I  raised 
my  eyes  I  found  that  she  was  steadily  observant  of  me.  Per- 
haps she  had  followed  the  current  of  my  mind;  for  it  seemed 
to  me  an  easy  one  to  track  now,  wilful  as  it  had  been  once. 

"You  will  find  her  father  a  white-haired  x)ld  man,"  said 
my  aunt,  "  though  a  better  man  in  all  other  respects — a  re- 
claimed man.  Neither  will  you  find  him  measuring  all 
human  interests,  and  joys,  and  sorrows,  with  his  one  poor 
little  inch-rule  now.  Trust  me,  child,  such  things  must 
shrink  very  much,  before  they  can  be  measured  off  in  Mdt/ 
way." 

"  Indeed,  they  must,"  said  I. 

"  You  will  find  her,"  pursued  my  aunt,  "as  good,  as  beau- 
tiful, as  earnest,  as  disinterested,  as  she  has  always  been.  If 
I  knew  higher  praise,  Trot,  I  would  bestow  it  on  her." 

There  was  no  higher  praise  for  her;  no  higher  reproach 
for  me.     Oh,  how  had  I  strayed  so  far  away  ! 

"  If  she  trains  the  young  girls  whom  she  has  about  her  to 
be  like  herself,"  said  my  aunt,  earnest  even  to  the  filling  of 
her  eyes  with  tears,  "  Heaven  knows  her  life  will  be  well 
employed  I  Useful  and  happy,  as  she  said  that  day  !  How 
could  she  be  otherwise  than  useful  and  happy  !" 

"Has  Agnes  any — "  I  was  thinking  aloud,  rather  than 
speaking. 

*'  Well  ?     Hey  ?    Any  what  ?"  said  my  aunt,  sharply. 

"Any  lover,"  said  I. 

"  A  score,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  kind  of  indignant  pride. 
"  She  might  have  been  married  twenty  times,  my  dear,  since 
you  have  been  gone  !" 


830  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  No  doubt,"  said  I.  *'  No  doubt.  But  has  she  any  lover 
who   Is  worthy  of  her  ?     Agnes  could  care  for  no  other." 

M/  aunt  sat  musing  for  a  little  while,  with  her  chin  upon 
her  hand.     Slowly  raising  her  eyes  to  mine,  she  said  : 
I  suspect  she  has  an  attachment,  Trot." 

"A  prosperous  one  ?"  said  I. 

"  Trot,"  returned  my  aunt  gravely,  "  I  can't  say.  I  have 
ho  right  to  tell  you  even  so  much.  She  has  never  confided 
it  to  me,  but  I  suspect  it." 

She  looked  so  attentively  and  anxiously  at  me  (I  even 
saw  her  tremble,)  that  I  felt  now,  more  than  ever,  that  she 
had  followed  my  late  thoughts.  I  summoned  all  the  resolu- 
tions I  had  made,  in  all  those  many  days  and  nights,  and  all 
those  many  conflicts  of  my  heart. 

"  If  it  should  be  so,"  I  began,  "  and  I  hope  it  is — " 

^' I  don't  know  that  it  is,"  said  my  aunt  curtly.  **  You 
must  not  be  ruled  by  my  suspicions.  You  must  keep 
them  secret.  They  are  very  slight,  perhaps.  I  have  no 
right  to  speak." 

"  If  it  should  be  so,"  I  repeated,  "  Agnes  will  tell  me  at 
her  own  good  time.  A  sister  to  whom  I  have  confided  so 
much,  aunt,  will  not  be  reluctant  to  confide  in  me." 

My  aunt  withdrew  her  eyes  from  mine  as  slowly  as  she 
had  turned  them  upon  me;  and  covered  them  thoughtfully 
with  her  hand.  By-and-by  she  put  her  other  hand  on  my 
shoulder;  and  so  we  both  sat  looking  into  the  past,  without 
saying  another  word,  until  we  parted  for  the  night. 

I  rode  away,  early  in  the  morning,  for  the  scene  of  my 
old  school  days.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  yet  quite  happy, 
in  the  hope  that  I  was  gaining  a  victory  over  myself;  even 
in  the  prospect  of  so  soon  looking  on  her  face  again. 

The  well-remembered  ground  was  soon  traversed,  and  I 
came  into  the  quiet  streets,  where  every  stone  was  a  boy's 
book  to  me.  I  went  on  foot  to  the  old  house,  and  went 
away  with  a  heart  too  full  to  enter.  I  returned;  and  look- 
ing, as  I  passed,  through  the  low  window  of  the  turret-room 
where  first  Uriah  Heep,  and  afterwards  Mr.  Micawber,  had 
been  wont  to  sit,  saw  that  it  was  a  little  parlor  now,  and 
that  there  was  no  office.  Otherwise  the  staid  old  house  was, 
as  to  its  cleanliness  and  order,  still  just  as  it  had  been  when 
I  first  saw  it.  I  requested  the  new  maid  who  admitted  me, 
to  tell  Miss  Wickfield  that  a  gentleman  who  waited  on  her 
from  a  friend  abroad  was  there;  and  I  was  shown  up  the 
grave  old  staircase  (cautioned  of  the  steps  I  knew  so  well), 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  831 

into  the  unchanged  drawing-room.  The  books  that  Agnes 
and  I  had  read  together,  were  on  their  shelves;  and  the 
desk  where  I  had  labored  at  my  lessons,  many  a  night,  stood 
yet  at  the  same  old  corner  of  the  table.  All  the  little 
changes  that  had  crept  in  when  the  Heeps  were  there,  were 
changed  again.  Everything  was  as  it  used  to  be,  in  the 
happy  time. 

I  stood  in  a  window,  and  looked  across  the  ancient  street 
at  the  opposite  houses,  recalling  how  I  had  watched  them, 
on  wet  afternoons,  when  I  first  came  there;  and  how  I  had 
used  to  speculate  about  the  people  who  had  appeared  at  any 
of  the  windows,  and  had  followed  them  with  my  eyes  up 
and  down  stairs,  while  women  went  clickmg  along  the 
pavement  in  pattens,  and  the  dull  rain  fell  in  slanting  lines, 
and  poured  out  of  the  water-spout  yonder,  and  flowed  into 
the  road.  The  feeling  with  which  I  used  to  watch  the 
tramps,  as  they  came  into  the  town,  on  those  wet  evenings,  at 
dusk,  and  limped  past,  with  their  bundles  drooping  over 
their  shoulders  at  the  end  of  sticks,  came  freshly  back  to 
me;  fraught,  as  then,  with  the  smell  of  damp  earth,  and  wet 
leaves  and  brier,  and  the  sensation  of  the  very  airs  that  blew 
upon  me  in  my  own  toilsome  journey. 

The  opening  of  the  little  door  in  the  pannelled  wall  made 
me  start  and  turn.  Her  beautiful  serene  eyes  met  mine  as 
she  came  towards  me.  She  stopped  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  bosom,  and  I  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Agnes  !  my  dear  girl !  I  have  come  too  suddenly  upon 
you." 

"  No,  no  !  I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you,  Trotwood  !" 

"  Dear  Agnes,  the  happiness  it  is  to  me  to  see  you  once 
again  !" 

I  folded  her  to  my  heart,  and,  for  a  little  while,  we  were 
both  silent.  Presently  we  sat  down,  side  by  side;  and  her 
angel  face  was  turned  upon  me  with  the  welcome  I  had 
dreamed  of,  waking  and  sleeping,  for  whole  years. 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she  was  so  good — I 
owed  her  so  much  gratitude,  she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that  I 
could  find  no  utterance  in  what  I  felt.  I  tried  to  bless  her, 
^ried  to  thank  her,  tried  to  tell  her  (as  I  had  often  done  in 
letters)  what  an  influence  she  had  upon  me;  but  all  my 
efforts  were  in  vain.     My  love  and  joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquillity  she  calmed  my  agitation; 
aiid  led  me  back  to  the  time  of  our  parting;  spoke  t'^  me  of 


S$2  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Emily,  whom  she  had  visited  in  secret  many  times;  spoke 
to  me  tenderly  of  Dora's  grave.  With  the  unerring  instinct 
of  her  noble  heart,  she  touched  the  chords  of  my  memory  so 
softly  and  harmoniously,  that  not  one  jarred  within  me;  I 
could  listen  to  the  sorrowful  distant  music,  and  desire  to 
shrink  from  nothing  it  awoke.  How  could  I,  when  blended 
with  it  all,  was  her  dear  self,  the  better  angel  of  my  life? 

"  And  you,  Agnes,"  said  I,  by-and-by.  "  Tell  me  of  your- 
self. You  have  hardly  ever  told  me  of  your  own  life,  in  all 
this  lapse  of  time!'* 

"  What  should  I  tell?"  she  answered,  with  her  radiant 
smile.  "Papa  is  well.  You  see  us  here,  quiet  in  our  own  home; 
our  anxieties  set  at  rest,  our  home  restored  to  us;  and  know- 
ing that,  dear  Trotwood,  you  know  all." 

"  All,  Agnes?"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me,  with  some  fluttering  wonder  in  her 
face. 

"  Is  there  nothing  else,  sister?"  I  said. 

Her  color,  which  had  just  now  faded,  returned  and  faded 
again.  She  smiled;  with  a  quiet  sadness,  I  thought;  and 
shook  her  head. 

I  had  sought  to  lead  her  to  what  my  aunt  had  hinted  at; 
for  sharply  painful  to  me  as  it  must  be  to  receive  that  con- 
fidence, I  was  to  discipline  my  heart,  and  do  my  duty  to  her. 
I  saw,  however,  that  she  was  uneasy,  and  I  let  it  pass. 

"  You  have  much  to  do,  dear  Agnes?" 

"  With  my  school?"  said  she,  looking  up  again  in  all  her 
bright  composure. 

*'  Yes.     It  is  laborious,  is  it  not?" 

"  The  labor  is  so  pleasant,"  she  returned,  **  that  it  is  scarce- 
ly grateful  in  me  to  call  it  by  that  name." 

"  Nothing  good  is  difficult  to  you,"  said  I. 

Her  color  came  and  went  once  more;  and  once  more  as 
she  bent  her  head  I  saw  the  same  sad  smile. 

"  You  will  wait  and  see  papa,"  said  Agnes,  cheerfully,  "and 
pass  the  day  with  us?  Perhaps  you  will  sleep  in  your  own 
room?    We  always  call  it  yours." 

I  could  not  do  that,  having  promised  to  ride  back  to  my 
aunt's  at  night;  but  I  would  pass  the  day  there  joyfully. 

"  I  must  be  a  prisoner  for  a  little  while,"  said  Agnes,  "  but 
here  are  the  old  books,  Trotwood,  and  the  old  music." 

"  Even  the  old  flowers  are  here,"  said  I,  looking  round, 
"or  the  old  kinds." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  833 

"  I  have,  found  a  pleasure,"  returned  Agnes,  smiling,  "  while 
you  have  been  absent,  in  keeping  everything  as  it  used  to  be 
when  we  were  children.  For  we  were  happy  then,  I 
think." 

"  Heaven  knows  we  were!"  said  I. 

"And  every  little  thing  that  has  reminded  me  of  my 
brother,"  said  Agnes,  with  her  cordial  eyes  turned  cheerfully 
upon  me,  "  has  been  a  welcome  companion.  Even  this," 
showing  me  the  basket-trifle,  full  of  keys,  hanging  at  her 
side,  ''seems  to  jingle  a  kind  of  old  tune!" 

She  smiled  again,  and  went  out  at  the  door  by  which  she  had 
come. 

It  was  for  me  to  guard  the  sisterly  affection  with  religious 
care.  It  was  all  that  I  had  left  myself,  and  it  was  a  treasure. 
If  I  once  shook  the  foundations  of  the  sacred  confidence  and 
usage,  in  virtue  of  which  it  was  given  to  me,  it  was  lost,  and 
could  never  be  recovered.  I  set  this  steadily  before  myself. 
The  better  I  loved  her  the  more  it  behooved  me  never  to  for- 
get it. 

I  walked  through  the  streets;  and  once  more  seeing 
my  old  adversary  the  butcher — now  a  constable,  with  his 
staff  hanging  up  in  the  shop — went  down  to  look  at  the  place 
where  I  had  fought  him:  and  there  meditated  on  Miss 
Shepherd,  and  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins,  and  all  the  idle  loves, 
and  likings,  and  dislikings  of  that  time.  Nothing  seemed  to 
have  survived  that  time  but  Agnes;  and  she,  ever  a  star  above 
me,  was  brighter  and  higher. 

When  I  returned,  Mr.  Wickfield  had  come  home  from  a 
garden  he  had,  a  couple  of  miles  or  so  out  of  town,  where 
he  now  employed  himself  almost  every  day.  I  found  him  as 
my  aunt  had  described  him.  We  sat  down  to  dinner,  with 
some  half-dozen  little  girls;  and  he  seemed  but  the  shadow  of 
his  handsome  picture  on  the  wall. 

The  tranquillity  and  peace  belonging,  of  old,  to  that  quiet 
ground  in  my  memory,  pervaded  it  again.  When  dinner 
was  done,  Mr.  Wickfield  taking  no  wine,  and  I  desiring  none, 
we  went  Hp-stairs,where  Agnes  and  her  little  charges  sang,and 
played,  and  worked.  After  tea  the  children  left  us;  and  we 
three  sat  together,Jalking  of  the  by-gone  days. 

"  My  part  in  them,"  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  shaking  his  white 
head,  "  has  much  matter  for  regret — for  deep  regret,  and 
deep  contrition,  Trotwood,  you  well  know.  But  I  would 
not  cancel  it,  if  it  were  in  my  power." 


834  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  could  really  believe  that,  looking  at  the  face  beside 
him. 

"  I  shoirid  cancel  with  it,"  he  pursued,  "  such  patience  and 
devotion,  such  fidelity,  such  a  child's  love,  as  I  must  not  for- 
get, no!  even  to  forget  myself." 

"  I  understand  you,  sir,"  I  softly  said.  "  I  hold  it — I  have 
always  held  it — in  veneration." 

'*But  no  one  knows,  not  even  you,"  he  returned,  "how 
much  she  ha-s  done,  how  much  she  has  undergone,  how  hard 
she  has  striven.     Dear  Agnes!" 

She  had  put  her  hand  entreatingly  on  his  arm,  to  stop  him; 
and  was  very,  very  pale. 

"Well,  well!"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  dismissing,  as  I  then 
saw,  some  trial  she  had  borne,  or  w«s  yet  to  bear,  in  con- 
nection with  what  my  aunt  had  told  me.  "  Well!  I  have 
never  told  you,  Trotwood,  of  her  mother.     Has  any  one?" 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  It's  not  much — though  it  was  much  to  suffer.  She  mar- 
ried me  in  opposition  to  her  father's  wish,  and  he  renounced 
her.  She  prayed  him  to  forgive  her,  before  my  Agnes  came 
into  this  world.  He  was  a  very  hard  man,  and  her  mother 
had  long  been  dead.  He  repulsed  her.  He  broke  her 
heart." 

Agnes  leaned  upon  his  shoulder,  and  stole  her  arm  about 
his  neck. 

"  She  had  an  affectionate  and  gentle  heart,"  he  said;  "and 
it  was  broken.  I  knew  its  tender  nature  very  well.  No 
one  could,  if  I  did  not.  She  loved  me  dearly,  but  was  never 
happy.  She  was  always  laboring,  in  secret,  under  this  dis- 
tress; and  being  delicate  and  downcast  at  the  time  of  his 
last  repulse — for  it  was  not  the  first,  by  many — pined 
away  and  died.  She  left  me  Agnes,  two  weeks  old,  and  the 
gray  hair  that  you  recollect  me  with,  when  you  first  came." 

He  kissed  Agnes  on  her  cheek. 

"  My  love  for  my  dear  child  was  a  diseased  love,  but  my 
mind  was  all  unhealthy  then.  I  say  no  more  of  that.  I  am 
not  speaking  of  myself,  Trotwood,  but  of  her  mother,  and 
of  her.  If  I  give  you  any  clue  to  what  I  am,  or  to  what  I 
have  been,  you  will  unravel  it,  I  know.  What  Agnes  is,  I 
need  not  say.  I  have  always  read  something  of  her  poor 
mother's  story,  in  her  character;  and  so  I  teU  it  you  to-' 
night,  when  we  three  are  again  together,  aftex  such  great 
changes.     I  have  told  it  all." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  835 

His  bowed  head,  and  her  angel  face  and  filial  duty,  de- 
rived a  more  pathetic  meaning  from  it  than  they  had  had 
before.  If  I  had  wanted  anything  by  which  to  mark  this 
night  of  our  reunion,  I  should  have  found  it  in  this. 

Agnes  rose  up  from  her  father's  side  before  long,  and 
going  softly  to  her  piano  played  some  of  the  old  airs  to  which 
we  had  often  listened  in  that  place. 

"  Have  you  any  intention  of  going  away  again?"  Agnes 
asked  me,  as  I  was  standing  by. 

"  What  does  my  sister  say  to  that?" 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  Then  I  have  no  such  intention,  Agnes." 

"  I  think  you  ought  not,  Trotwood,  since  you  ask  me," 
she  said  mildly.  "  Your  growing  reputation  and  success  en- 
large your  power  of  doing  good;  and  if  /  could  spare  my 
brother,"  with  her  eyes  upon  me;  "perhaps  the  time  could 
not." 

"  What  I  am,  you  have  made  me,  Agnes.  You  should 
know  best." 

"  /  made  you,  Trotwood?" 

"Yes,  Agnes,  my  dear  girl!"  I  said,  bending  over  her. 
"  I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  we  met  to-day,  something  that  has 
been  in  my  thoughts  since  Dora  died.  You  remember  when 
yon  came  down  to  me  in  our  little  room,  pointing  upwards, 
Agnes?" 

"Oh,  Trotwood!"  she  returned,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"So^loving,  so  confiding,  and  so  young!  Can  I  ever  for- 
get!" 

"  As  you  were  then,  my  sister,  I  have  often  thought  since, 
you  have  ever  been  to  me.  Ever  pointing  upwards,  Agnes; 
ever  leading  me  to  something  better;  ever  directing  me  to 
higher  things?" 

She  only  shook  her  head ;  through  her  tears  I  saw  the 
same  sad,  quiet  smile. 

"  And  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  for  it,  Agnes,  so  bound  to 
you,  that  there  is  no  name  for  the  affection  of  my  heart.  I 
want  you  to  know,  yet  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  that  all 
my  life  long  I  shall  look  up  to  you,  and  be  guided  by  you, 
as  I  have  been  through  the  darkness  that  is  past.  What- 
ever betides,  whatever  new  ties  you  may  form,  whatever 
changes  may  come  between  us,  I  shall  always  look  to  you, 
and  love  you,  as  I  do  now,  and  have  always  done.  You 
will  always  be  my  solace  and  resource,  as  you  have  always 


836  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

been.  Until  I  die,  my  dearest  sister,  I  shall  see  you  always 
before  me,  pointing  upwards  !" 

She  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  told  me  she  was  proud  of 
me,  and  what  I  said  ;  although  I  praised  her  very  far  be- 
yond her  worth.  Then  she  went  on  softly  playing,  but  with- 
out removing  her  eyes  from  me. 

"Do  you  know,  what  I  have  heard  to-night,  Agnes,"  said 
I,  "  strangely  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  feeling  with  which  I 
regarded  you  when  I  saw  you  first — with  which  I  sat  beside 
you  in  my  rough  school  days  ?" 

"  You  knew  I  had  no  mother  !"  she  replied,  with  a  smile, 
"  and  felt  kindly  towards  me." 

"  More  than  that,  Agnes.  I  knew,  almost  as  if  I  had 
known  this  story,  that  there  was  something  inexplicably  gen- 
tle and  softened  surrounding  you  ;  something  that  might 
have  been  sorrowful  in  some  one  else  (as  I  can  now  under- 
stand it  was),  but  was  not  so  in  you." 

She  softly  played  on,  looking  at  me  still. 

"  Will  you  laugh  at  my  cherishing  such  fancies,  Agnes  ?** 

"  No  !" 

"  Or  at  my  saying  that  I  really  believe  I  felt,  even  then, 
that  you  could  be  faithfully  affectionate  against  all  discour- 
agement, and  never  cease  to  be  so  until  you  ceased  to  live  ? 
Will  you  laugh  at  such  a  dream  ?" 

"Oh,  no!— oh,  no!" 

For  an  instant  a  distressful  shadow  crossed  her  face  ;  but 
even  in  the  start  it  gave  me,  it  was  gone  ;  and  she  was  play- 
ing on,  and  looking  at  me  with  her  own  calm  smile. 

As  I  rode  back  in  the  lonely  night,  the  wind  going  by  me 
like  a  restless  memory,  I  thought  of  this,  and  feared  she  was 
not  happy.  /  was  not  happy  ;  but  thus  far  I  had  faithfully 
set  the  seal  upon  the  past,  and  thinking  of  her,  pointing  up- 
wards, thought  of  her  as  pointing  to  that  sky  above  me, 
where,  in  the  mystery  to  come,  I  might  yet  love  her  with  a 
love  unknown  on  earth,  and  tell  her  what  the  strife  had 
been  within  me  when  I  loved  her  here. 


DAVID  COPl^ERFIELD.  $37 

CHAPTER  LXL 

I  AM.  SHOWN   TWO   INTERESTING  PENITENTS. 

For  a  time — at  all  events  until  my  book  should  be  com- 
pleted, which  would  be  the  work  of  several  months — I  took 
up  my  abode  in  my  aunt's  house  at  Dover:  and  there,  sitting 
in  the  window  from  which  I  had  looked  out  at  the  moon  up- 
on the  sea,  when  that  roof  first  gave  me  shelter,  I  quietly 
pursued  my  task. 

In  pursuance  of  my  attention  of  referring  to  my  own  fic- 
tions only  when  their  course  should  incidentally  connect  it- 
self with  the  progress  of  my  story,  I  do  not  enter  on  the 
aspirations,  the  delights,  anxieties,  and  triumphs,  of  my  art. 
That  I  truly  devoted  myself  to  it  with  my  strongest  earn- 
estness, and  bestowed  upon  it  every  energy  of  my  soul,  I 
have  already  said.  If  the  books  I  have  written  be  of  any 
worth,  they  will  supply  the  rest.  I  shall  otherwise  have 
written  to  poor  purpose,  and  the  rest  will  be  of  interest  to 
no  one. 

^  Occasionally  I  went  to  London,  to  lose  myself  in  the 
swarm  of  life  there,  or  to  consult  with  Traddles  on  some 
business  point.  He  had  managed  for  me,  in  my  absence, 
with  the  soundest  judgment;  and  my  worldly  affairs  were 
prospering.  As  my  notoriety  began  to  bring  upon  me  an 
enormous  quantity  of  letters  from  people  of  whom  I  had  no 
knowledge — chiefly  about  nothing,  and  extremely  difficult  to 
answer — I  agreed  with  Traddles  to  have  my  name  painted 
up  on  his  door.  There  the  devoted  postman  on  that  beat 
delivered  bushels  of  letters  for  me;  and  there,  at  intervals, 
I  labored  through  them,  like  a  Home  Secretary  of  State, 
without  the  salary. 

Among  this  correspondence,  there  dropped  in,  every  now 
and  then,  an  obliging  proposal  from  one  of  the  numerous 
outsiders  always  lurking  about  the  Commons,  to  practise 
under  cover  of  my  name  (if  I  would  take  the  necessary  steps 
remaining  to  make  a  proctor  of  myself,)  and  pay  me  a  per- 
centage on  the  profits.  But  I  declined  these  offers;  being 
already  aware  that  there  were  plenty  of  such  covert  practi- 
tioners in  existence,  and  considering  the  Commons  quite 
bad  enough,  without  my  doing  anything  to  make  it  worse. 

The  girls  had  gone  home,  when  my  name  burst  into  bloom 


838  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

on  Traddles's  door;  and  the  sharp  boy  looked,  all  day,  as  if 
he  had  never  heard  of  Sophy,  shut  up  in  a  back  room,  glanc- 
ing down  from  her  work  into  a  sooty  little  strip  of  garden 
with  a  pump  in  it.  But  there  I  always  found  her,  the  same 
bright  housewife;  often  humming  her  Devonshire  ballads 
when  no  strange  foot  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  blunt* 
ing  the  sharp  boy  in  his  official  closet  with  melody. 

I  wondered,  at  first,  why  I  so  often  found  Sophy  writing 
in  a  copy-book;  and  why  she  always  shut  it  up  when  I  ap- 
peared, and  hurried  it  into  the  table-drawer.  But  the  secret 
soon  came  out.  One  day  Traddles  (who  had  just  come 
home  through  the  drizzling  sleet  from  Court)  took  a  paper 
out  of  his  desk,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  that  hand- 
writing? 

"Oh,  don'ty  Tom!"  cried  Sophy,  who  was  warming  his 
slippers  before  the  fire. 

"  My  dear,"  returned  Tom,  in  a  delighted  tone,  "  why  not? 
What  do  you  say  to  that  handwriting,  Copperfield?" 

"  It's  extraordinarily  legal  and  formal,"  said  I.  "  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  such  a  stiff  hand." 

"  Not  like  a  lady's  hand,  is  it?"  said  Traddles. 

"Alady.'s!"  I  repeated.  "Bricks  and  mortar  are  more 
like  a  lady's  hand!" 

Traddles  broke  into  a  rapturous  laugh,  and  informed  me 
that  it  was  Sophy's  writing;  that  Sophy  had  vowed  and  de- 
clared he  would  need  a  copying-clerk  soon,  and  she  would 
be  that  clerk;  that  she  had  acquired  this  hand  from  a  pat- 
tern; and  that  she  could  throw  off — I  forget  how 
many  folios  an  hour.  Sophy  was  very  much  confused  by 
my  being  told  all  this,  and  said  that  when  "  Tom "  was 
made  a  judge  he  wouldn't  be  so  ready  to  proclaim  it.  Which 
"  Tom"  denied;  averring  that  he  should  always  be  equally 
proud  of  it,  under  all  circumstances. 

"  What  a  thoroughly  good  and  charming  wife  she  is,  my 
dear  Traddles!"  said  I,  when  she  had  gone  away,  laughing, 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  returned  Traddles,  "  she  is,  with- 
out any  exception,  the  dearest  girl!  The  way  she  manages 
this  place;  her  punctuality,  domestic  knowledge,  economy, 
and  order;  her  cheerfulness,  Copperfield!" 

"Indeed,  you  have  reason  to  commend  her!"  I  returned. 
"  You  are  a  happy  fellow.  I  believe  you  make  yourselves, 
and  each  other,  two  of  the  happiest  people  in  the  world." 

"I  am  sure  we  are  two  of  the  happiest  people,"  returned 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  839 

Traddles.  "I  admit  that,  at  all  events.  Bless  my  soul, 
when  I  see  her  getting  up  by  candle-light  on  these  dark 
mornings,  busying  herself  in  the  day's  arrangements,  going 
out  to  market  before  the  clerks  come  into  the  Inn,  caring 
for  no  weather,  devising  the  most  capital  little  dinners  out 
of  the  plainest  materials,  making  puddings  and  pies,  keep- 
ing everything  in  its  right  place,  always  so  neat  and  orna- 
mental herself,  sitting  up  at  night  with  me  if  it's  ever 
so  late,  sweet-tempered  and  encouraging  always,  and  all 
for  me,  I  positively  sometimes  can't  believe  it.  Copper- 
field!" 

He  was  tender  of  the  very  slippers  she  had  been  warming, 
as  he  put  them  on,  and  stretched  his  feet  enjoyingly  upon 
the  fender. 

"  I  positively  sometimes  can't  believe  it,"  said  Traddles. 
"Then,  our  pleasures!  Dear  me,  they  are  inexpensive,  but 
they  are  quite  wonderful!  When  we  are  at  home  here,  of  an 
evening,  and  shut  the  outer  door,  and  draw  those  curtains — 
which  she  made — where  could  we  be  more  snug?  When  it's 
fine,  and  we  go  out  for  a  walk  in  the  evening,  the  streets 
abound  in  enjoyment  for  us.  We  look  into  the  glittering 
windows  of  the  jewelers'  shops;  and  I  show  Sophy  which 
of  the  diamond  eyed  serpents,  coiled  up  on  white  satin  rising 
grounds,  I  would  give  her  if  I  could  afford  it;  and  Sophy 
shows  me  which  of  the  gold  watches  that  are  capped  and 
jeweled  and  engine-turned,  and  possessed  of  the  horizontal 
lever-escape-movement,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  she  would 
buy  for  me  if  she  could  afford  it;  and  we  pick  out  the  spoons 
and  forks,  fish-slices,  butter-knives,  and  sugar  tongs,  we 
should  both  prefer  if  we  could  both  afford  it;  and  really 
we  go  away  as  if  we  had  got  them!  Then  we  stroll  into  the 
squares,  and  great  streets,  and  see  a  house  to  let;  sometimes 
we  look  up  at  it,  and  say,  how  would  that  do,  if  I  was  made 
judge?  And  then  we  parcel  it  out — such  a  room  for  us,  and 
such  a  room  for  the  girls,  and  so  forth;  until  we  settle  to  our 
satisfaction  that  it  would  do,  or  it  wouldn't  do,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Sometimes  we  go  at  half-price  to  the  pit  of  the 
theatre — the  very  smell  of  which  is  cheap,  in  my  opinion,  at 
the  money — and  there  we  thoroughly  enjoy  the  play:  which 
Sophy  believes  every  word  of,  and  so  do  I.  In  walking 
home,  perhaps  we  buy  a  little  bit  of  something  at  a  cook's 
shop,  or  a  little  lobster  at  the  the  fishmonger's,  and  bring  it 
here,  and  make  a  splendid  supper,  chatting  about  what  we 


840  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

have  seen.     Now,  you  know,  Copperfield,  if  I   was   Lord 
Chancellor,  we  couldn't  do  this!" 

"  You  would  do  something,  whatever  you  were,  my  dear 
Traddles,"  thought  I,  *'  that  would  be  pleasant  and  amiable! 
And  by  the  way,"  I  said  aloud,  ''  I  suppose  you  never  draw 
any  skeletons  now?" 

"  Really,"  replied  Traddles,  laughing,  and  reddening,  "  I 
can't  wholly  deny  that  I  do,  my  dear  Copperfield.  For,  be- 
ing in  one  of  the  back  rows  of  the  King's  Bench  the  other 
day,  with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  the  fancy  came  into  my  head 
to  try  how  I  had  preserved  that  accomplishment.  And  I 
am  afraid  there's  a  skeleton — in  a  wig — on  a  ledge  of  the 
desk." 

After  we  had  both  laughed  heartily,  Traddles  wound  up 
by  looking  with  a  smile  at  the  fire,  and  saying,  in  his  forgiv- 
ing way,  "OldCreakle!" 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  that  old — rascal  here,"  said  I.  For 
I  never  was  less  disposed  to  forgive  him  the  way  he  used  to 
batter  Traddles,  than  when  I  saw  Traddles  so  ready  to  for- 
give him  himself. 

"  From  Creakle  the  schoolmaster?"  exclaimed  Traddles. 
"No!" 

"Among  the  persons  who  are  attracted  to  me  in  my  rising 
fame  and  fortune,"  said  I,  looking  over  my  letters,  and  who 
discover  that  they  were  always  much  attached  to  me,  is  the 
self-same  Creakle.  He  is  not  a  schoolmaster  now,  Traddles. 
He  is  retired.     He  is  a  Middlesex  Magistrate." 

I  thought  Traddles  might  be  surprised  to  hear  it,  but  he 
was  not  so  at  all. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  he  ^omes  to  be  a  Middlesex  Magis- 
trate?" said  I. 

"Oh  dear  me!"  replied  Traddles,  *'it  would  be  very  diffi- 
cult to  answer  that  question.  Perhaps  he  voted  for  some- 
body, or  lent  money  to  somebody,  or  bought  something  of 
somebody,  or  otherwise  obliged  somebody,  or  jobbed  for 
somebody,  who  knew  somebody,  who  got  the  lieutenant  of 
the  county  to  nominate  him  for  the  commission." 

"  On  the  commission  he  is  at  any  rate,"  said  I.  "  And  he 
writes  to  me  here,  that  he  will  be  glad  to  show  me,  in  oper- 
ation, the  only  true  system  of  prison  discipline,  the  only  un- 
challengeable way  of  making  sincere  and  lasting  converts 
and  penitents — which,  you  know,  is  by  solitary  confinement. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  841 

"  To  the  system  ?"  inquired  Traddles,  looking  grave. 

"  No.  To  my  accepting  the  offer,  and  your  going  with 
me  ?" 

"  I  don't  object,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Then  1*11  write  to  say  so.  You  remember  (to  say  noth- 
ing of  our  treatment)  this  same  Creakle  turning  his  son  out 
of  doors,  I  suppose,  and  the  life  he  used  to  lead  his  wife  and 
daughter  ?" 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Yet,  if  you'll  read  his  letter,  you'll  find  he  is  the  tender- 
est  of  men  to  prisoners  convicted  of  the  whole  calendar  of 
felonies,"  said  I ;  "though  I  can't  find  that  his  tenderness 
extends  to  any  other  class  of  created  beings." 

Traddles  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  not  at  all  sur- 
prised. I  had  not  expected  him  to  be,  and  was  not  sur- 
prised myself  ;  or  my  observation  of  similar  practical  satires 
would  have  been  but  scanty.  We  arranged  the  time  of  our 
visit,  and  I  wrote  accordingly  to  Mr.  Creakle  that  evening. 

On  the  appointed  day — I  think  it  was  the  next  day,  but 
no  matter — Traddles  and  I  repaired  to  the  prison  where 
Mr.  Creakle  was  powerful.  It  was  an  immense  and  solid 
building,  erected  at  a  vast  expense.  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing, as  we  approached  the  gate,  what  an  uproar  would  have 
been  made  in  the  country  if  any  deluded  man  had  proposed 
to  spend  one  half  the  money  it  had  cost,  on  the  erection  of 
an  industrial  school  for  the  young,  or  a  house  of  refuge  for 
the  deserving  old. 

In  an  office  that  might  have  been  on  the  ground-floor  of  the 
Tower  of  Babel,  it  was  so  massively  constructed,  we  were 
presented  to  our  old  schoolmaster  ;  who  was  one  of  a  group, 
composed  of  two  or  three  of  ftie  busier  sort  of  magistrates, 
and  some  visitors  they  had  brought.  He  received  me  like 
a  man  who  had  formed  my  mind  in  by-gone  years,  and  had 
always  loved  me  tenderly.  On  my  introducing  Traddles, 
Mr.  Creakle  expressed,  in  like  manner,  but  in  an  inferior 
degree,  that  he  had  always  been  Traddles's  guide,  philoso- 
pher, and  friend.  Our  venerable  instructor  was  a  great  deal 
older,  and  not  improved  in  appearance.  His  face  was  as 
fiery  as  ever ;  his  eyes  were  as  small,  and  rather  deeper  set. 
The  scanty,  wet-looking  gray  hair,  by  which  I  remembered 
him,  was  almost  gone  ;  and  the  thick  veins  in  his  bald  head 
were  none  the  more  agreeable  to  look  at. 

After  some  conversation  among  these  gentlemen,  from 


842  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

which  I  might  have  supposed  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  to  be  legitimately  taken  into  account  but  the  supreme 
comfort  of  prisoners,  at  any  expense,  and  nothing  on  the 
wide  earth  to  be  done  outside  prison-doors,  we  began  our 
inspection.  It  being  then  just  dinner-time,  we  went  first 
into  the  great  kitchen,  where  every  prisoner's  dinner  was  in 
course  of  being  set  out  separately  (to  be  handed  to  him  in 
his  cell),  with  the  regularity  and  precision  of  clock-work. 
I  said  aside,  to  Traddles,  that  I  wondered  whether  it  oc- 
curred to  anybody,  that  there  was  a  striking  contrast  be- 
tween these  plentiful  repasts  of  choice  quality,  and  the  din- 
ners, not  to  say  of  paupers,  but  of  soldiers,  sailors,  laborers, 
the  great  bulk  of  the  honest,  working  community  ;  of  whom 
not  one  man  in  five  hundred  ever  dined  half  so  well.  But 
I  learned  that  the  *'  system"  required  high  living  ;  and,  in 
short,  to  dispose  of  the  system,  once  for  all,  I  found  that  on 
that  head  and  on  all  others,  "  the  system"  put  an  end  to  all 
doubts,  and  disposed  of  all  anomalies.  Nobody  appeared 
to  have  the  least  idea  that  there  was  any  other  system,  but 
the  system,  to  be  considered. 

As  we  were  going  through  some  of  the  magnificent  pas- 
sages, I  inquired  of  Mr.  Creakle  and  his  friends  what  were 
supposed  to  be  the  main  advantages  of  this  all-governing 
and  universally  over-riding  system  ?  I  found  them  to  be 
the  perfect  isolation  of  prisoners — so  that  no  one  man  in 
confinement  there  knew  anything  about  another ;  and  the 
reduction  of  prisoners  to  a  wholesome  state  of  mind,  lead- 
ing to  sincere  contrition  and  repentance. 

Now  it  struck  me,  when  he  began  to  visit  individuals  in 
their  cells,  and  to  traverse  the  passages  in  which  those  cells 
were,  and  to  have  the  manner  of  the  going  to  chapel  and  so 
forth  explained  to  us,  that  there  was  a  strong  probability  of 
the  prisoners  knowing  a  good  deal  about  each  other,  and 
of  their  carrying  on  a  pretty  complete  system  of  intercourse. 
This,  at  the  time  I  write,  has  been  proved,  I  believe, 
to  be  the  case;  but  as  it  would  have  been  flat  blas- 
phemy against  the  system  to  have  hinted  such  a  doubt 
then,  I  looked  out  for  the  penitence  as  diligently  as  I  could. 

And  here  again  I  had  great  misgivings.  I  found  as  prev- 
alent a  fashion  in  the  form  of  the  penitence,  as  I  had  left 
outside  in  the  forms  of  the  coats  and  waistcoats  in  the  win- 
dows of  the  tailors*  shops.  I  found  a  vast  amount  of  pro- 
fession, varying  very  little  in  character;  varying  very  little 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  843 

(which  I  thought  exceedingly  suspicious),  even  in  words.  I 
found  a  great  many  foxes,  disparaging  whole  vineyards  of 
inaccessible  grapes;  but  I  found  very  few  foxes  whom  I 
would  have  trusted  within  reach  of  a  bunch.  Above  all,  I 
found  that  the  most  professing  men  were  the  greatest  objects 
of  interest;  and  that  their  conceit,  their  vanity,  their  want 
of  excitement,  and  their  love  of  deception  (which  many  of 
them  possessed  to  an  almost  incredible  extent,  as  their  his- 
tories showed),  all  prompted  to  these  professions,  and  were 
all  gratified  by  them. 

However,  I  heard  so  repeatedly,  in  the  course  of  going  to 
and  fro,  of  a  certain  Number  Twenty-seven,  who  was 
the  favorite,  and  who  really  appeared  to  be  a  Model  Prisoner, 
that  I  resolved  to  suspend  my  judgment  until  I  should 
see  Twenty-seven.  Twenty-eight,  I  understood,  was  also  a 
bright  partit:ular  star;  but  it  was  his  misfortune  to  have  his 
glory  a  little  dimmed  by  the  extraordinary  luster  of 
Twenty-seven.  I  heard  so  much  of  Twenty -seven, 
of  his  pious  admonitions  to  everybody  around  him, 
and  of  the  beautiful  letters  he  constantly  wrote  to  his  mother 
(whom  he  seemed  to  consider  in  a  very  bad  way),  that  I 
became  quite  impatient  to  see  him. 

I  had  to  restrain  my  impatience  for  some  time,  on  account 
of  Twenty-seven  being  reserved  for  a  concluding  effect. 
But  at  last  we  came  to  the  door  of  his  cell;  and  Mr. 
Creakle,  looking  through  a  little  hole  in  it,  reported  to  us  in 
a  state  of  the  greatest  admiration,  that  he  was  reading  a 
Hymn  Book. 

There  was  such  a  rush  of  heads  immediately  to  see  Num- 
ber Twenty-seven  reading  his  Hymn  Book,  that  the  little 
hole  was  blocked  up  six  or  seven  heads  deep.  To  remedy 
this  inconvenience,  and  give  us  an  opportunity  of  convers- 
ing with  Twenty-seven  in  all  his  purity,  Mr.  Creakle  direct- 
ed the  door  of  the  cell  to  be  unlocked,  and  Twenty-seven 
to  be  invited  out  into  the  passage.  This  was  done;  and 
whom  should  Traddles  and  I  then  behold,  to  our  amaze- 
ment, in  this  converted  Number  Twenty-seven,  but  Uriah 
Heep! 

He  knew  us  directly;  and  said,  as  he  came  out — with  the 
old  writhe, — 

'■  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Traddles  ?" 

The  recognition  caused  a  general  admiration  in  the  party. 


844  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  rather  thought  that  every  one  was  struck  by  his  not  being 
proud,  and  taking  notice  of  us. 

"Well,  Twenty-seven,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  mournfully 
admiring  him.     "  How  do  you  find  yourself  to-day  ?'* 

"  I'm  very  umble,  sir  ?"  replied  Uriah  Heep. 

"  You  are  always  so,  Twenty-seven,"  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

Here  another  gentleman  asked,  with  extreme  anxiety: 
'*  Are  you  quite  comfortable  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  thank  you,  sir  !"said  Uriah  Heep,  looking  in  that 
direction.  "  Far  more  comfortable  here,  than  I  ever  was 
outside.  I  see  my  follies  now,  sir.  That's  what  makes  me 
comfortable } " 

Several  gentlemen  were  much  affected;  and  a  third  ques- 
tioner, forcing  himself  to  the  front,  inquired  with  extreme 
feeling,  "  How  do  you  find  the  beef  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Uriah,  glancing  in  the  new 
direction  of  this  voice.  "It  was  tougher  yesterday  than  I 
could  wish;  but  it's  my  duty  to  bear.  I  have  committal 
follies,  gentlemen,"  said  Uriah,  looking  round  with  a  meek 
smile,  "  and  I  ought  to  bear  the  consequence  without  re- 
pining." 

A  murmur,  partly  of  gratification  at  Twenty-seven's 
celestial  state  of  mind,  and  partly  of  indignation  against  the 
Contractor  who  had  given  him  the  cause  of  complaint  (a 
note  of  which  was  immediately  made  by  Mr.  Creakle), 
having  subsided.  Twenty-seven  stood  in  the  midst  of  us,  as 
if  he  felt  himself  the  principal  object  of  merit  in  a  highly 
meritorious  museum.  That  we,  the  neophytes,  might  have 
an  excess  of  light  shining  upon  us  all  at  once,  orders  were 
given  to  let  out  Twenty-eight. 

I  had  been  so  much  astonished  already,  that  I  only  felt  a 
kind  of  resigned  wonder  when  Mr.  Littimer  walked  forth, 
reading  a  good  book! 

"  Twenty-eight,"  said  a  gentleman  in  spectacles,  who  had 
not  yet  spoken,  "  you  complained  last  week,  my  good  fellow, 
of  the  cocoa.     How  has  it  been  since  ?" 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Littimer,  **  it  has  been  better 
made.  If  I  might  take  the  liberty  of  saying  so,  sir,  I  don't 
think  the  milk  which  is  boiled  with  it  is  quite  genuine;  but 
I  am  aware,  sir,  that  there  is  great  adulteration  of  milk  in 
London,  and  that  the  article  in  a  pure  state  is  difficult  to  be 
obtained." 

It  appeared  to  me  that  the  gentleman  in  spectacles  backed 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  845 

his  Twenty-eight    against  Mr.  Creakle's  Twenty-seven,  for 
each  of  them  took  his  own  man  in  hand. 

*' What  is  your  state  of  mind,  Twenty-eight?"  said  the 
questioner  in  spectacles. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Littimer;  "  I  see  my  fol- 
lies now,  sir.  I  am  a  good  deal  troubled  when  I  think  of 
the  sins  of  my  former  companions,  sir;  but  I  trust  they  may 
find  forgiveness." 

"You  are  quite  happy  yourself?"  said  the  questioner, 
nodding  encouragement. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Littimer. 
"  Perfectly  so." 

"  Is  there  anything  at  all  on  your  mind,  now  ?"  said  the 
questioner.     "  If  so,  mention  it,  Twenty-eight." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Littimer,  without  looking  up,  "  if  my  eyes 
have  not  deceived  me,  there  is  a  gentleman  present  who  was 
acquainted  with  me  in  my  former  life.  It  may  be  profitable 
to  that  gentleman  to  know,  sir,  that  I  attribute  my  past  fol- 
lies, entirely  to  having  lived  a  thoughtless  life  in  the  service 
of  young  men;  and  to  having  allowed  myself  to  be  led  by 
them  into  weaknesses,  which  I  had  not  strength  to  resist.  I 
hope  that  gentleman  will  take  warning,  sir,  and  not  be  of- 
fended at  my  freedom.  It  is  for  his  good.  I  am  conscious 
of  my  own  past  follies.  I  hope  he  may  repent  of  all  the 
wickedness  and  sin  to  which  he  has  been  a  party." 

I  observed  that  several  gentlemen  were  shading  their 
eyes,  each  with  one  hand,  as  if  they  had  just  come  into 
church. 

"This  does  you  credit.  Twenty-eight,"  returned  the  ques- 
tioner. "  I  should  have  expected  it  of  you.  Is  there  any- 
thing else  ?" 

"Sir,"  returned  Mr.  Littimer,  slightly  lifting  up  his  eye- 
brows, but  not  his  eyes,  "  there  was  a  young  woman  who  fell 
into  dissolute  courses,  that  I  endeavored  to  save,  sir,  but 
could  not  rescue.  I  beg  that  gentleman,  if  he  has  it  in  his 
power,  to  inform  that  young  woman  from  me  that  I  forgive 
her  her  bad  conduct  towards  myself;  and  that  I  call  her  to 
repentance — if  he  will  be  so  good." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  Twenty-eight,"  returned  the  question- 
er, "  that  the  gentleman  you  refer  to  feels  very  strongly — as 
we  all  must — what  you  have  so  properly  said.  We  will  not 
detain  you." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Littimer.    "  Gentlemen,  I  wish 


846  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

you  a  good  day,  and  hoping  you  and  your  families  will  see 
your  wickedness,  and  amend." 

With  this  Number  Twenty-eight  retired,  after  a  glance 
between  him  and  Uriah,  as  if  they  were  not  altogether  un- 
known to  each  other,  through  some  medium  of  communica- 
tion; and  a  murmur  went  round  the  group,  as  his  door  shut 
upon  him,  that  he  was  a  most  respectable  man,  and  a  beau- 
tiful case. 

"  Now,  Twenty-seven,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  entering  on  a. 
clear  stage  with  /it's  man,  "  is  there  anything  that  any  one 
can  do  for  you  ?     If  so,  mention  it." 

"  I  would  umbly  ask  you,  sir,"  returned  Uriah,  with  a  jerk 
of  his  malevolent  head,  "  for  leave  to  write  again  to  mother." 

"  It  shall  certainly  be  granted,"  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

'*  Thank  you,  sir!  I  am  anxious  about  mother.  I  am 
afraid  she  ain't  safe." 

Somebody  incautiously  asked  from  what  ?  But  there  was 
a  scandalized  whisper  of  "  Hush!" 

"  Immortally  safe,  sir,"  returned  Uriah,  writhing  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice.  "  I  should  wish  mother  to  be  got 
into  my  state.  I  never  should  have  been  got  into  my  pres- 
ent state  if  I  hadn't  come  here.  It  would  be  better  for 
everybody,  if  they  got  took  up,  and  was  brought  here." 

This  sentiment  gave  unbounded  satisfaction — greater  sat- 
isfaction, I  think,  than  anything  that  had  passed  yet. 

"  Before  I  came  here,"  said  Uriah,  stealing  a  look  at  us,  as 
if  he  would  have  blighted  the  outer  world  to  which  we  be-, 
longed,  if  he  could,  "I  was  given  to  follies;  but  now  I  am 
sensible  of  my  follies.  There's  a  deal  of  sin  outside.  There's 
nothing  but  sin  everywhere — except  here." 

"  You  are  quite  changed  ?"  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

*'  Oh  dear,  yes,  sir  !"  cried  this  hopeful  penitent. 

"  You  wouldn't  relapse,  if  you  were  going  out  ?"  asked 
somebody  else. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  sir." 

"  Well !"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  "  this  is  very  gratifying.  You 
have  addressed  Mr.  Copperfield,  Twenty-seven.  Do  you 
wish  to  say  anything  further  to  him  ?" 

"  You  knew  me  a  long  time  before  I  came  here  and  was 
changed,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah,  looking  at  me;  and 
a  more  villainous  look  I  never  saw,  even  on  his  visage. 
"  You  knew  me  when,  in  spite  of  my  follies,  I  was  umble 
among  them  that  was  proud,  and  meek  among  them  that  was 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  847 

violent — you  was  violent  to  me  yourself,  Mr.  Copperfield. 
Once  you  struck  me  a  blow  in  the  face,  you  know." 

General  commiseration.  Several  indignant  glances 
directed  at  mc. 

"  But  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah,  making 
his  forgiving  nature  the  subject  of  a  most  impious  and  awful 
parallel,  which  I  shall  not  record.  "  I  forgive  everybody.  It 
would  ill  become  me  to  bear  malice.  I  freely  forgive  you, 
and  I  hope  you'll  curb  your  passions  in  future.  I  hope  Mr. 
W.  will  repent,  and  Miss  W.,  and  all  of  that  sinful  lot.  You've 
been  visited  with  affliction,  and  I  hope  it  may  do  you  good; 
but  you'd  better  have  come  here.  Mr.  W.  had  better  have 
come  here,  and  Miss  W.  too.  The  best  wish  I  could  give  you, 
Mr.  Copperfield,  and  all  of  you  gentlemen,  is,  !  that  you 
could  be  took  up  and  brought  here.  When  I  think  of  my 
past  follies,  and  my  present  state,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  best 
for  you.    I  pity  all  who  ain't  brought  here." 

He  sneaked  back  into  his  cell,  amid  a  little  chorus  of  ap- 
probation; and  both  Traddles  and  I  experienced  a  great  re- 
lief when  he  was  locked  in. 

It  was  a  characteristic  feature  in  this  repentance,  that  I 
was  fain  to  ask  what  these  two  men  had  done,  to  be  there  at 
all.  That  ajjpeared  to  be  the  last  thing  about  which  they 
had  anything' to  say.  I  addressed  myself  to  one  of  the  two 
warders,  who,  I  suspected,  from  certain  latent  indications  in 
their  faces,  knew  pretty  well  what  all  this  stir  was  worth. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  as  we  walked  along  the  passage, 
"  what  felony  was  Number  Twenty-seven's  last  *  folly  ?'" 

The  answer  was,  that  it  was  a  Bank  case. 

"  A  fraud  on  the  Bank  of  England  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Fraud,  forgery  and  conspiracy.  He  and  some 
others.  He  set  the  others  on.  It  was  a  deep  plot  for  a  large 
sum.  Sentence,  transportation  for  life.  Twenty-seven  was 
the  knowingest  bird  of  the  lot,  and  had  very  nearly  kept  him- 
self safe;  but  not  quite.  The  Bank  was  just  able  to  put  salt 
upon  his  tail — and  only  just." 

"  Do  you  know  Twenty-eight's  offense  ?" 

"  Twenty-eight,"  returned  my  informant,  speaking  through- 
out in  a  low  tone,  and  looking  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  walked 
along  the  passage,  to  guard  himself  from  being  overheard, 
in  such  an  unlawful  reference  to  those  Immaculates,  by 
Creakle  and  the  rest  ;  "  Twenty-eight  (also  transportation) 
got  a  place,  and  robbed  a.  young  master  of  a  matter  of  two 


848  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  money  and  valuables,  the  night 
before  they  were  going  abroad.  I  particularly  recollect  his 
case,  from  his  being  took  by  a  dwarf." 

"  A  what  ?" 

"  A  little  woman.     I  have  forgot  her  name." 

*'Not  Mowcher!" 

"  That's  it!  He  had  eluded  pursuit,  and  was  going  to 
America  in  a  flaxen  wig,  and  whiskers,  and  such  a  complete 
disguise  as  never  you  see  in  all  your  born  days;  when  the 
little  woman,  being  in  Southampton,  met  him  walking  along 
the  street — picked  him  out  with  her  sharp  eye  in  a  moment 
— ran  betwixt  his  legs  to  upset  him — and  held  on  to  him  like 
grim  death." 

"  Excellent  Miss  Mowcher,"  cried  I. 

"  You'd  have  said  so  if  you  had  seen  her,  standing  on  a 
chair  in  the  witness  box  at  his  trial,  as  I  did,"  said  my  friend. 
"  He  cut  her  face  right  open,  and  pounded  her  in  the  most 
brutal  manner  when  she  took  him;  but  she  never  loosed  her 
hold  till  he  was  locked  up.  She  held  so  tight  to  him,  in  fact, 
that  the  officers  were  obliged  to  take  'em  both  together.  She 
gave  her  evidence  in  the  gamest  way,  and  was  highly  com- 
plimented by  the  Bench,  and  cheered  right  home  to  her 
lodgings.  She  said  in  Court  that  she'd  have  took  him  single 
handed  (on  account  of  what  she  knew  concerning  him),  if 
he  had  been  Samson.     And  it's  my  belief  she  would  !" 

It  was  mine,  too,  and  I  highly  respected  Miss  Mowcher 
for  it. 

We  had  now  seen  all  there  was  to  see.  It  would  have 
been  in  vain  to  represent  to  such  a  man  as  the  Worshipful 
Mr.  Creakle,  that  Twenty-seven  and  Twenty-eight  were 
perfectly  consistent  and  unchanged;  that  exactly  what  they 
were  then  they  had  always  been;  that  the  hypocritical  knaves 
were  just  the  subjects  to  make  that  sort  of  profession  in 
such  a  place;  that  they  knew  its  market  value  at  least  as 
well  as  we  did,  in  the  immediate  service  it  would  do  them 
when  they  were  expatriated;  in  a  word,  that  it  was  a  rotten, 
hollow,  painfully  suggestive  piece  of  business  altogether.  We 
left  them  to  their  system  and  themselves,  and  went  home 
wondering. 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  good  thing,  Traddles,"  said  I,  "  to  have 
an  unsound  hobby  ridden  hard;  for  it's  the  sooner  ridden  to 
death." 

^'  I  hope  so,"  replied  Traddles, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  849 

CHAPTER  LXII. 

A    LIGHT    SHINES    ON   MY    WAY. 

The  year  came  round  to  Christmas-time,  and  I  had  been 
at  ho;ne  above  two  months.  I  had  seen  Agnes  frequently. 
However  loud  the  general  voice  might  be  in  giving  me  en- 
couragement, and  however  fervent  the  emotions  and  endeav- 
ors to  which  it  roused  me,  I  heard  her  lightest  word  of  praise 
as  I  heard  nothing  else. 

At  least  once  a  week,  and  sometimes  oftener,  I  rode  over 
there  and  passed  the  evening.  I  usually  rode  back  at  night; 
for  the  old  unhappy  sense  was  always  hovering  about  me 
now — most  sorrowfully  when  I  left  her — and  I  was  glad  to 
be  up  and  out  rather  than  wandering  over  the  past  in  weary 
wakefulness  or  miserable  dreams.  I  wore  away  the  longest 
part  of  many  sad  nights  in  those  rides;  reviving,  as  I  went, 
the  thoughts  that  had  occupied  me  in  my  long  absence. 

Or  if  I  were  to  say  rather  that  I  listened  to  the  echoes  of 
those  thoughts,  I  should  better  express  the  truth.  They 
spoke  to  me  from  afar  off.  I  had  put  them  at  a  distance, 
and  accepted  my  inevitable  place.  When  I  read  to  Agnes 
what  I  wrote;  when  I  saw  her  listening  face;  moved  her  to 
smiles  or  tears;  and  heard  her  cordial  voice  so  earnest  on 
the  shadowy  events  of  that  imaginative  world  in  which  I 
lived;  I  thought  what  a  fate  mine  might  have  been — but 
only  thought  so,  as  I  had  thought  after  I  was  married  to 
Dora,  what  I  could  have  wished  my  wife  to  be. 

My  duty  to  Agnes,  who  loved  me  with  a  love  which,  if  I 
disquieted,  I  wronged  most  selfishly  2nd  poorly,  and  could 
never  restore;  my  matured  assurance  that  I,  who  had  worked 
out  my  own  destiny,  and  won  what  I  had  impetuously  set 
my  heart  on,  had  no  light  to  murmur,  and  must  bear;  com- 
prised what  I  felt  and  what  I  had  learned.  But  I  loved  her; 
and  now  it  even  became  some  consolation  to  me,  vaguely  to 
conceive  a  distant  day  when  I  might  blamelessly  avow  it; 
when  all  this  should  be  over;  when  I  could  say,  *'  Agnes,  so 
it  was  when  I  came  home;  and  now  I  am  old,  and  I  never 
have  loved  since!" 

She  did  not  show  me  any  change  in  herself.  What  sh« 
always  had  been  to  me,  she  still  was  ;  wholly  unaltered. 

Between  my  aunt  and  me  there  had  been  something,  in 


850  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

this  connection,  since  the  night  of  my  return,  which  I  can- 
not j^all  a  restraint,  or  an  avoidance  of  the  subject,  so  much 
as  an  implied  understanding  that  we  thought  of  it  together, 
but  did  not  shape  our  thoughts  into  words.  When,  accord- 
ing to  our  old  custom,  we  sat  before  the  fire  at  night,  we 
often  fell  into  this  train;  as  naturally  and  as  consciously  to 
each  other,  as  if  we  had  unreservedly  said  so.  But  we  pre- 
served an  unbroken  silence.  I  believed  that  she  had  read, 
or  partly  read,  my  thoughts  that  night;  and  that  she  fully 
comprehended  why  I  gave  mine  no  more  distinct  ex- 
pression. 

The  Christmas-time  being  come,  and  Agnes  having  re- 
posed no  new  confidence  in  me,  a  doubt  that  had  several 
times  arisen  in  my  mind — whether  she  could  have  that  per- 
ception of  the  true  state  of  my  breast,  which  restrained  her 
with  the  apprehension  of  giving  me  pain — began  to  oppress 
me  heavily.  If  that  were  so,  my  sacrifice  was  nothing;  my 
plainest  obligation  to  her  unfulfilled;  and  every  poor  action 
I  had  shrunk  from,  I  was  hourly  doing.  I  resolved  to  set 
this  right  beyond  all  doubt; — if  such  a  barrier  were  between 
us,  to  break  it  down  at  once  with  a  determined  hand. 

It  was — what  lasting  reason  have  I  to  remember  it! — a 
cold,  harsh,  winter  day.  There  had  been  snow  some  hours 
before;  and  it  lay,  not  deep,  but  hard-frozen  on  the  ground. 
Out  at  sea,  beyond  my  window,  the  wind  blew  ruggedly 
from  the  north.  I  had  been  thinking  of  it,  sweeping  over 
those  mountain  wastes  of  snow  in  Switzerland,  then  inacces- 
sible to  any  human  foot;  and  had  been  speculating  which 
was  the  lonelier,  those  solitary  regions  or  a  deserted  ocean. 

"  Riding  to-day,  Trot  ?"  said  my  aunt,  putting  her  head 
in  at  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  1  am  going  over  to  Canterbury.  It's  a 
good  day  for  a  ride." 

"I  hope  your  horse  may  think  so  too,"  said  my  aunt: 
"but  at  present  he  is  holding  down  his  head  and  his  ears, 
standing  before  the  door  there,  as  if  he  thought  his  stable 
preferable." 

My  aunt,  I  may  observe,  allowed  my  horse  on  the  for- 
bidden ground,  but  had  not  at  all  relented  towards  the 
donkeys. 

"He  will  be  fresh  enough  presently!"  said  I. 

"  The  ride  will  do  his  master  good  at  all  events,"  observed 
my  aunt,  glancing  at  the  papers  on  my  table.     "  Ah,  child. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  851 

you  pass  a  good  many  hours  there!  I  never  thought  when  I 
used  to  read  books,  what  work  it  was  to  write  them." 

"  It's  work  enough  to  read  them,  sometimes,"  I  returned. 
"  As  to  the  writing,  it  has  its  own  charms,  aunt." 

"  Ah!  I  see!"  said  my  aunt.  "Ambition,  love  of  approba- 
tion, sympathy,  and  much  more,  I  suppose  ?  Well;  go  along 
with  you!" 

"  Do  you  know  anything  more,"  said  I,  standing  com- 
posedly before  her — she  had  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and 
sat  down  in  my  chair,  "  of  that  attachment  of  Agnes  ?" 

She  looked  up  in  my  face  a  little  while  before  replying, 

"I  think  I  do.  Trot." 

"Are  you  confirmed  in  your  impression  ?"  I  inquired. 

"I  think  I  am.  Trot." 

She  looked  so  steadfastly  at  me,  with  a  kind  of  doubt,  or 
pity,  or  suspense  in  her  affection,  that  I  summoned  the 
stronger  determination  to  show  her  a  perfectly  cheerful 
face. 

"  And  what  is  more,  Trot — "  said  my  aunt. 

"Yes!" 

"  I  think  Agnes  is  going  to  be  married." 

"God  bless  her!"  said  I,  cheerfully. 

"God  bless  her!"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  her  husband  too!" 

I  echoed  it,  parted  from  my  aunt,  went  lightly  down  stairs, 
mounted,  and  rode  away.  There  was  greater  reason  than 
before  to  do  what  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  wintry  ride!  The  frozen  par- 
ticles of  ice,  brushed  from  the  blades  of  grass  by  the 
wind,  and  borne  across  my  face;  the  hard  clatter  of  the 
horse's  hoofs,  beating  a  tune  upon  the  ground;  the  stiff 
tilled  soil;  the  snow-drift,  lightly  eddying  in  the  chalk- 
pit as  the  breeze  ruffled  it;  the  smoking  team  with  the 
wagon  of  old  hay,  stopping  to  breathe  on  the  hill-top,  and 
shaking  their  bells  musically;  the  whitened  slopes  and  sweeps 
of  Down-land  lying  against  the  dark  sky,  as  if  they  were 
drawn  on  a  nuge  slate. 

I  found  Agnes  alone.  The  little  girls  had  gone  to  their 
own  homes  now,  and  she  was  alone  by  the  fire,  reading. 
She  put  down  her  book  on  seeing  me  come  in  ;  and  having 
welcomed  me  as  usual,  took  her  work-basket  and  sat  in  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  windows. 

I  sat  beside  her  on  the  window-seat,  and  we  talked  of 
what  I  was  doing,  and  when  it  wpul^  be  don^j,  a.^4  Qf  the 


852  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

progress  I  had  made  since  my  last  visit.  Agnes  was  very 
cheerful ;  and  laughingly  predicted  that  I  should  soon  be- 
come too  famous  to  be  talked  to  on  such  subjects. 

"  So  I  make  the  most  of  the  present  time,  you  vsee,"  said 
Agnes,  "and  talk  to  you  while  I  may." 

As  I  looked  at  her  beautiful  face,  observant  of  her  work, 
she  raised  her  mild  clear  eyes,  and  saw  that  I  was  looking 
at  her. 

"You  are  thoughtful  to-day,  Trotwood  !" 

"Agnes,  shall  I  tell  you  what  about  ?  I  came  to  tell  you." 

She  put  aside  her  work,  as  she  was  used  to  do  when  we 
were  seriously  discussing  anything ;  and  gave  me  her  whole 
attention. 

"  My  dear  Agnes,  do  you  doubt  my  being  true  to  you  ?" 

"  No  !"  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  being  what  I  always  have  been  to 
you  ?" 

"  No  !"  she  answered,  as  before. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  I  came 
home,  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  I  owed  you,  dearest  Agnes, 
and  how  fervently  I  felt  towards  you  ?'* 

"I  remember  it,"  she  said,  gently,  "very  well." 

"You  have  a  secret,"  said  I.     "Let  me  share  it,  Agnes." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  trembled. 

"  I  could  hardly  fail  to  know,  even  if  I  had  not  heard — 
but  from  other  lips  than  yours,  Agnes,  which  seems  strange 
— that  there  is  some  one  upon  whom  you  have  bestowed 
the  treasure  of  your  love.  Do  not  shut  me  out  of  what 
concerns  your  happiness  so  nearly  !  If  you  can  trust  me  as 
you  say  you  can,  and  as  I  know  you  may,  let  me  be  your 
friend,  your  brother,  in  this  matter,  of  all  others  !" 

With  an  appealing,  almost  a  reproachful  glance,  she  rose 
from  the  window  ;  and  hurrying  across  the  room  as  if  with- 
out knowing  where,  put  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  burst 
into  such  tears  as  smote  me  to  the  heart. 

And  yet  they  awakened  something  in  me,  bringing  prom- 
ise to  my  heart.  Without  my  knowing  why,  these  tears 
allied  themselves  with  the  quietly  sad  smile  which  was  so 
fixed  in  my  remembrance,  and  shook  me  more  with  hope 
than  fear  or  sorrow. 

"  Agnes  I  Sister  !  Dearest !  What  have  I  done  ?" 

"  Let  me  go  away,  Trotwood.  I  am  not  well.  I  am  not 
myself.     I  will  speak  to  you  by-and-by — another  time.     1 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  853 

will  write  to  you.  Don't  speak  to  me  now.  Don't ! 
don't  !" 

I  sought  to  recollect  what  she  had  said,  when  I  had  spoken 
to  her  on  that  former  night,  oi  her  affection  meeting  no  re- 
tarn.  It  seemed  a  very  world  that  I  must  search  through 
in  a  moment. 

"  Agnes,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  and  think  that  I 
have  been  the  cause.  My  dearest  girl,  dearer  to  mc  than 
anything  in  life,  if  you  are  unhappy,  let  me  share  your  un- 
happiness.  If  you  are  in  need  of  help  or  counsel,  let  me 
try  to  give  it  to  you.  If  you  have  indeed  a  burden  on  your 
heart,  let  me  try  to  lighten  it.  For  whom  do  I  live  now, 
Agnes,  if  it  is  not  for  you  !'* 

"  Oh,  spare  me  !  I  am  not  myself  !  Another  time  !"  was 
5ill  that  I  could  distinguish. 

Was  it  a  selfish  error  that  was  leading  me  away  ?  Or  hav- 
ing once  a  clue  to  hope,  was  there  something  opening  to  me 
that  I  had  not  dared  to  think  of  ? 

"  I  must  say  more.  I  cannot  let  you  leave  me  so  !  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Agnes,  let  us  not  mistake  each  other  after 
all  these  years,  and  all  that  has  come  and  gone  with  them  ! 
I  must  speak  plainly.  If  you  have  any  lingering  thought 
that  I  could  envy  the  happiness  you  will  confer  ;  that  I  could 
not  resign  you  to  a  dearer  protector,  of  your  own  choosing  ; 
that  I  could  not,  from  my  removed  place,  be  a  contented 
witness  of  your  joy  ;  dismiss  it,  for  I  don't  deserve  it !  I 
have  not  suffered  quite  in  vain.  You  have  not  taught  me 
quite  in  vain.  There  is  no  alloy  of  self  in  what  I  feel  for 
you." 

She  was  quiet  now.  In  a  little  time  she  turned  her  pale 
face  towards  me,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  broken  here  and 
there,  but  very  clear. 

"  I  owe  it  to  your  pure  friendship  for  me,  Trotwood — 
which,  indeed,  I  do  not  doubt — to  tell  you,  you  are  mis- 
taken. I  can  do  no  more.  If  I  have  sometimes,  in  the 
course  of  years,  wanted  help  and  counsel,  they  have  come 
to  me.  If  I  have  sometimes  been  unhappy,  the  feeling  has 
passed  away.  If  I  have  ever  had  a  burden  on  my  heart,  it 
has  been  lightened  for  me.  If  I  have  any  secret,  it  is — no 
new  one  ;  and  is — not  what  you  suppose.  I  cannot  reveal 
it,  or  divide  it.  It  has  long  been  mine,  and  must  remain 
mine." 

"Agnes!    Stay!    A  moment!" 


854  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

She  was  going  away,  but  I  detained  her.  I  clasped  my 
arm  about  her  waist.  "  In  the  course  of  years!"  "  It  is  not 
a  new  one!"  New  thoughts  and  hopes  were  whirling 
through  my  mind,  and  all  the  colors  of  my  life  were  changing. 

"  Dearest  Agnes!  Whom  I  so  respect  and  honor — whom 
I  so  devotedly  love  !  When  I  came  here  to-day,  I  thought 
that  nothing  could  have  wrested  this  confession  from  me.  I 
thought  I  could  have  kept  it  in  my  bosom  all  our  lives,  till 
we  were  old.  But,  Agnes,  if  I  have  indeed  any  new-born 
hope  that  I  may  ever  call  you  something  more  than  Sister, 
widely  different  from  Sister! " 

Her  tears  fell  fast;  but  they  were  not  like  those  she  had 
lately  shed,  and  I  saw  my  hope  brighten  in  them. 

*'  Agnes  !  Ever  my  guide,  and  best  support  !  If  you  had 
been  more  mindful  of  yourself,  and  less  of  me,  when  we  grew 
up  here  together,  I  think  my  heedless  fancy  never  would 
have  wandered  from  you.  But  you  were  so  much  better 
than  I,  so  necessary  to  me  in  every  boyish  hope  and  disap- 
pointment, that  to  have  you  to  confide  in,  and  rely  upon  in 
everything,  became  a  second  nature,  supplanting  for  the 
time  the  first  and  greater  one  of  loving  you  as  I  do  !" 

Still  weeping,  but  not  sadly — joyfully  !  And  clasped  in 
my  arms  as  she  had  never  been,  as  I  had  thought  she  never 
was  to  be ! 

"  When  I  loved  Dora — fondly,  Agnes,  as  you  know" 

**  Yes  !"  she  cried,  earnestly.     **  I  am  glad  to  know  it." 

"  When  I  loved  her — even  then,  my  love  would  have  been 
incomplete,  without  your  sympathy.  I  had  it,  and  it  was 
perfected.  And  when  I  lost  her,  Agnes,  what  should  I  have 
been  without  you,  still  !" 

Closer  in  my  arms,  nearer  to  my  heart,  her  trembling  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  her  sweet  eyes  shining  through  her  tears, 
on  mine  ! 

"  I  went  away,  dear  Agnes,  loving  you.  I  stayed  away, 
loving  you.     I  returned  home,  loving  you  !" 

And  now,  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  struggle  I  had  had, 
and  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to.  I  tried  to  lay  my  mind 
before  her,  truly,  and  entirely.  I  tried  to  show  her,  how  I 
had  hoped  I  had  come  into  the  better  knowledge  of  myself 
and  of  her  ;  how  I  had  resigned  myself  to  what  that  better 
knowledge  brought  ;  and  how  I  had  come  there,  even  that 
day,  in  my  fidelity  to  this.  If  she  did  so  love  me  (I  said) 
that  she  could  take  me  for  her  husband,  she  could  do  so  on 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  855 

no  deserving  of  mine,  except  upon  the  truth  of  my  love  for 
her,  and  the  trouble  in  which  it  had  ripened  to  be  what  it 
was  ;  and  hence  it  was  that  I  revealed  it.  And  oh,  Agnes, 
even  out  of  thy  true  eyes  in  that  same  time,  the  spirit  of  my 
child-wife  looked  upon  me,  saying  it  was  well  ;  and  winning 
me,  through  thee,  to  tenderest  recollections  of  the  Blossom 
that  had  withered  in  its  bloom  ! 

*'  I  am  so  blest,  Trotwood — my  heart  is  so  overcharged — 
but  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say." 

*'  Dearest,  what  ?" 

She  laid  her  gentle  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  looked 
calmly  in  my  face. 

"  Do  you  know,  yet,  what  it  is  ?" 

''  I  am  afraid  to  speculate  on  what  it  is.    Tell  me  my  dear." 

"  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life  !'* 

Oh,  we  were  happy,  we  were  happy  !  Our  tears  were  not 
for  the  trials  (hers  so  much  the  greater)  through  which  we 
had  come  to  be  thus,  but  for  the  rapture  of  being  thus, 
never  to  be  divided  more  ! 

We  walked,  that  winter  evening,  in  the  fields  together  ; 
and  the  blessed  calm  within  us  seemed  to  be  partaken  by 
the  frosty  air.  The  early  stars  began  to  shine  while  we  were 
lingering  on,  and  looking  up  to  them  we  thanked  our  God 
for  having  guided  us  to  this  tranquillity. 

We  stood  together  in  the  same  old-fashioned  window  at 
night,  when  the  moon  was  shining;  Agnes  with  her  quiet 
eyes  raised  up  to  it,  I  following  her  glance.  Long  miles  of 
road  then  opened  out  before  my  mind  ;  and  toiling  on,  I  saw 
a  ragged,  way-worn  boy,  forsaken  and  neglected,  who  should 
come  to  call  even  the  heart  now  beating  against  mine  his  own. 

It  was  nearly  dinner  time  next  day,  when  we  appeared 
before  my  aunt.  She  was  up  in  my  study,  Peggotty  said; 
which  it  was  her  pride  to  keep  in  readiness  and  order  for  me. 
We  found  her  in  her  spectacles,  sitting  by  the  fire. 

"Goodness  me!"  said  my  aunt,  peering  through  the  dusk, 
"  who's  this  you're  bringing  home?" 

"Agnes,"  said  I. 

As  we  had  arranged  to  say  nothing  at  first,  my  aunt  was 
not  a  little  discomfited.  She  darted  a  hopeful  glance  at  me 
when  I  said  "  Agnes;"  but  seeing  that  I  looked  as  usual, 
she  took  off  her  spectacles  in  despair,  and  rubbed  her  nose 
with  them. 

She  greeted   Agnes  heartily,  nevertheless;   and   we   were 


Ss6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

soon  in  the  lighted  parlor  down  stairs,  at  dinner.  My  aunt 
put  on  her  spectacles  twice  or  thrice,  to  take  another  look 
at  me,  but  as  often  took  them  off  again,  disappointed,  and 
rubbed  her  nose  with  them — much  to  the  discomfiture  of 
Mr.  Dick,  who  knew  this  to  be  a  bad  symptom. 

"By-the-by,  aunt,"  said  I  after  dinner,  "I  have  been 
speaking  to  Agnes  about  what  you  told  me." 

"  Then,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  scarlet,  "  you  did 
wrong,  and  broke  your  promise." 

"  You  are  not  angry,  aunt,  I  trust?  I  am  sure  you  won't 
be,  when  you  learn  that  Agnes  is  not  unhappy  in  any  attach- 
ment." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense!"  said  my  aunt. 

As  my  aunt  appeared  to  be  annoyed,  I  thought  the  best 
way  was  to  cut  her  annoyance  short.  I  took  Agnes  in  my 
arm  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  we  both  leaned  over  her. 
My  aunt,  with  one  clap  of  her  hands,  and  one  look  through 
her  spectacles,  immediately  went  into  hysterics,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  all  my  knowledge  of  her. 

The  hysterics  called  up  Peggotty.  The  moment  my  aunt 
was  restored,  she  flew  at  Peggotty,  and  calling  her  a  silly 
old  creature,  hugged  her  with  all  her  might.  After  that,  she 
hugged  Mr.  Dick  (who  was  highly  honored,  but  a  good 
deal  surprised) J  and  after  that,  told  them  why.  Then  we 
were  all  happy  together. 

I  could  not  discover  whether  my  aunt,  in  her  last  short 
conversation  with  me,  had  fallen  on  a  pious  fraud,  or  had 
really  mistaken  the  state  of  my  mind.  It  was  quite  enough, 
she  said,  that  she  had  told  me  Agnes  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried; and  that  I  now  knew  better  than  any  one  how  true  it 
was. 

We  were  married  within  a  fortnight.  Traddles  and  Sophy, 
and  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Strong,  were  the  only  guests  at  our 
quiet  wedding.  We  left  them  full  of  joy;  and  drove  away 
together.  Clasped  in  my  embrace,  I  held  the  source  of 
every  worthy  aspiration  I  had  ever  had;  the  centre  of  my- 
self, the  circle  of  my  life,  my  own,  my  wife;  my  love  of  whom 
was  founded  on  a  rock! 

"Dearest  husband'"  said  Agnes,  "now  that  I  may  call 
you  by  that  name,  I  have  one  thing  more  to  tell  you. "  ^ 

"  Let  me  hear  it,  love." 

"  It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died.  She  sent 
you  for  me." 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD.  8^/ 

''She  did." 

"  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.  Can  you  think 
what  it  was?" 

I  believed  1  could.  I  drew  the  wife  who  had  so  long 
loved  me,  closer  to  my  side. 

**  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to  me,  and  left 
me  a  last  charge." 

"  And  it  was " 

"  That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place." 

And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast,  and  wept;  and 
I  wept  with  her,  though  we  were  so  happy. 

CHAPTER   LXIII. 

A  VISITOR. 

What  I  have  proposed  to  record  is  nearly  finished;  but 
there  is  yet  an  incident  conspicuous  in  my  memory,  on 
which  it  often  rests  with  delight,  and  without  it  one  thread 
in  the  web  I  have  spun,  would  have  a  raveled  end. 

I  had  advanced  in  fame  and  fortune,  my  domestic  joy 
was  perfect,  I  had  been  married  ten  happy  years.  Agnes 
and  I  were  sitting  by  the  fire  in  our  house  in  London,  one 
night  in  spring,  and  three  of  our  children  were  playing  in 
the  room,  when  I  was  told  that  a  stranger  wished  to  see  me. 

He  had  been  asked  if  he  came  on  business,  and  had  an- 
swered No;  he  had  come  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me,  and 
had  come  a  long  way.  He  was  an  old  man,  my  servant  said, 
and  looked  like  a  farmer. 

As  this  sounded  mysterious  to  the  children,  and  moreover 
was  like  the  beginning  of  a  favorite  story  Agnes  used  to  tell 
them,  introductory  to  the  arrival  of  a  wicked  old  Fairy  in  a 
cloak  who  hated  everybody,  it  produced  some  commotion. 
One  of  our  boys  laid  his  head  in  his  mother's  lap  to  be  out 
of  harm's  way,  and  little  Agnes  (our  eldest  child)  left  her 
doll  in  a  chair  to  represent  her,  and  thrust  out  her  little 
head  of  golden  curls  from  between  the  window-curtains,  to 
see  what  happened  next. 

"  Let  him  come  in  here  !"  said  L 

There  soon  appeared,  pausing  in  the  doorway  as  he  enter- 
ed, a  hale,  gray-haired  old  man.  Little  Agnes,  attracted  by 
his  looks,  had  run  to  bring  him  in,  and  I  had  not  yet  clearlv 


858  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

seen  his  face,  when  my  wife,  starting  up,  cried  out  to  me, 
^  in  a  pleased  and  agitated  voice,  that  it  was  Mr.  Peggotty  ! 

It  was  Mr.  Peggotty.  An  old  man  now,  but  in  a  ruddy, 
hearty,  strong  old  age.  When  our  first  emotion  was  over, 
and  he  sat  before  the  fire  with  the  children  on  his  knees, 
and  the  blaze  shining  on  his  face,  he  looked  to  me  as  vigor- 
ous and  robust,  withal  as  handsome,  an  old  man  as  ever  I 
had  seen. 

"  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  he.  And  the  old  name  in  the  old  tone 
fell  so  naturally  on  my  ear  !  "  Mas'r  Davy,  'tis  a  joyful  hour 
as  I  see  you,  once  more,  'long  with  your  own  trew  wife  !" 

"A  joyful  hour  indeed,  old  friend  !"  cried  I. 

"  And  these  heer  pretty  ones,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "^To 
look  at  these  heer  flowers  !  Why,  Mas'r  Davy,  you  was 
but  the  heighth  of  the  littlest  of  these,  when  I  first  see  you  ! 
When  Em'ly  warn't  no  bigger,  and  our  poor  lad  were  but  a 
lad  !" 

"  Time  has  changed  me  more  than  it  has  changed  you 
since  then,"  said  I.  "  But  let  these  dear  rogues  go  to  bed; 
and  as  no  house  in  England  but  this  must  hold  you,  tell  me 
where  to  send  for  your  luggage  (is  the  old  black  bag  among 
it,  that  went  so  far,  I  wonder  !),  and  then,  over  a  glass  of 
Yarmouth  grog,  we  will  have  the  tidings  of  ten  years  !" 

"  Are  you  alone  ?"  asked   Agnes. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hand,  "  quite  alone." 

We  sat  him  between  us,  not  knowing  how  to  give  him 
welcome  enough;  and  as  I  began  to  listen  to  his  old  familiar 
voice,  I  could  have  fancied  he  was  still  pursuing  his  long 
journey  in  search  of  his  darling  niece. 

"  It's  a  mort  of  water,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  fur  to  come 
across,  and  on'y  stay  a  matter  of  fower  weeks.  But  water 
('specially  when  'tis  salt)  comes  nat'ral  to  me;  and  friends 
is  dear,  and  I  am  heer. — Which  is  verse,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
surprised  to  find  it  out,  "  Though  I  hadn't  such  intentions." 

*'  Are  you  going  back  these  many  thousand  miles,  so 
soon?  "asked  Agnes. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  returned.  **  I  give  the  promise  to 
Em'ly,  afore  I  come  away.  You  see,  I  don't  grow  younger 
as  the  years  comes  round,  and  if  I  hadn't  sailed  as  'twas, 
most  likely  I  shouldn't  never  have  don't.  And  it's  alius 
been  on  my  mind,  as  I  must  come  and  see  Mas'r  Davy  and 
your  own  sweet  blooming  self,  in  your  wedded  happincss> 
afore  I  got  to  be  too  old." 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  859 

He  looked  at  us,  as  if  he  could  never  feast  his  eyes  on  us 
sufficiently.  Agnes  laughingly  put  back  some  scattered  locks 
of  his  gray  hair,  that  he  might  see  us  better. 

"  And  now  tell  us,"  said  I,  "  everything  relating  to  your 
fortunes." 

"  Our  fortuns,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  rejoined,  "  is  soon  told. 
We  haven't  fared  nohows,  but  fared  to  thrive.  We've  alius 
thrived.  We've  worked  as  we  ought  to  't,  and  maybe  we 
lived  a  leetle  hard  at  first  or  so,  but  we  have  alius  thrived. 
What  with  sheep-farming,  and  what  with  stock-farming,  and 
what  with  one  thing  and  what  with  t'other,  we  are  as  well  to 
do,  as  well  couM  be.  Theer's  been  kiender  a  blessing  fell 
upon  us,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  reverentially  inclining  his  head 
"and  we've  done  nowt  but  prosper.  That  is,  in  the  long 
run.  If  not  yesterday,  why  then  to-day.  If  not  to-day, 
why  then  to-morrow." 

"  And  Emily?"  said  Agnes  and  I,  both  together. 

"  Em'ly,"  said  he,  "  arter  you  left  her,  ma'am — and  I 
never  heerd  her  saying  of  her  prayers  at  night,  t'other  side 
the  canvas  screen,  when  we  was  settled  in  the  Bush,  but 
what  I  heerd  your  name — and  arter  she  and  me  lost  sight 
of  Mas'r  Davy,  that  theer  shining  sundown — was  that  low, 
at  first,  that,  if  she  had  know'd  then  what  Mas'r  Davy  kep 
from  us  so  kind  and  thowtful,  'tis  my  opinion  she'd  have 
drooped  away.  But  theer  was  some  poor  folks  aboard  as 
had  illness  among  'em,  and  she  took  care  of  them;  and  theer 
was  the  children  in  our  company,  and  she  took  care  of  them; 
and  so  she  got  to  be  busy,  and  to  be  doing  good,  and  that 
helped  her." 

"  When  did  she  first  hear  of  it?"  I  asked. 

*'  I  kep  it  from  her  arter  I  heerd  on't,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"  going  on  nigh  a  year.  We  was  living  then  in  a  solitary 
place,  but  among  the  beautifullest  trees,  and  with  the  roses 
a  covering  our  Beein  to  the  roof.  Theer  come  along  one 
day,  when  I  was  a  working  on  the  land,  a  traveler  from  our 
own  Norfolk  or  Suffolk  in  England  (I  doen't  rightly  mind 
which),  and  of  course  we  took  him  in,  and  giv  him  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  made  him  welcome.  We  all  do  that,  all  the 
colony  over.  He'd  got  an  old  newspaper  with  him,  and 
some  other  account  in  print  of  the  storm.  That's  how  she 
know'd  it.  When  I  come  home  at  night,  I  found  she 
know'd  it." 

He  dropped  his  voice  as  he  said  these  words,  and  the 
gravity  I  so  well  remembered  overspread  his  face. 


S6o  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Did  it  change  her  much?"  we  asked. 

"  Ay,  for  a  good  long  time,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head; 
"  if  not  to  this  present  hour.  But  I  think  the  solitoode 
done  her  good.  And  she  had  a  deal  to  mind  in  the  way  of 
poultry  and  the  like,  and  minded  of  it,  and  come  through. 
I  wonder,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  if  you  could  see  my 
Em'ly  now,  Mas'r  Davy,  whether  you'd  know  her!" 

**  Is  she  so  altered?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  doen't  know.  I  see  her  every  day,  and  doen-'t  know; 
but  odd-times  I  have  thowt  so.  A  slight  figure,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  looking  at  the  fire,  "  kiender  worn;  soft,  sorrow- 
ful, blue  eyes;  a  delicate  face;  a  pritty  head,  leaning  a  little 
down;  a  quiet  voice  and  way — timid  a'most.     That's  Em'ly!" 

We  silently  observed  him  as  he  sat,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  Some  thinks,"  he  said,  "  as  her  affection  was  ill-bestowed; 
some,  as  her  marriage  was  broke  off  by  death.  No  one 
knows  how  'tis.  She  might  have  married  well  a  mort  of 
times,  '  but  uncle,'  she  says  to  me,  'that's  gone  for  ever,' 
Cheerful  along  with  me;  retired  when  others  is  by;  fond  of 
going  any  distance  fur  to  teach  a  child,  or  fur  to  tend  a 
sick  person,  or  fur  to  do  some  kindness  tow'rds  a  young 
girl's  wedding  (and  she's  done  a  many,  but  has  never  seen 
one);  fondly  loving  of  her  uncle;  patient;  liked  by  young 
and  old;  sowt  out  by  all  that  has  any  trouble.  That's 
Em'ly." 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  with  a  half-sup- 
pressed sigh  looked  up  from  the  fire. 

"Is  Martha  with  you  yet?"  I  asked. 

"  Martha,"  he  replied,  "  got  married,  Mas'r  Davy,  in  the 
second  year.  A  young  man,  a  farm-laborer,  as  come  by  us 
on  his  way  to  market  with  his  mas'r's  drays — a  journey  of 
over  five  hundred  mile,  theer  and  back — made  offers  fur  to 
take  her  fur  his  wife  (wives  is  very  scarce  theer),  and  then 
to  set  up  for  their  two  selves  in  the  Bush.  She  spoke  to  me 
fur  to  tell  him  her  trew  story.  I  did.  They  was  married, 
and  they  live  fower  hundred  mile  away  from  any  voices  but 
their  own  and  the  singing  birds." 

'*  Mrs.  Gummidge?"  I  suggested. 

It  was  a  pleasant  key  to  touch,  for  Mr.  Peggotty  suddenly 
burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  rubbed  his  hands  up  and 
down  his  legs,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  when  he 
enjoyed  himself  in  the  long-shipwrecked  boat. 

"Would  you  believe  it  !"  he  said.     "Why,  someun  even 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  86i 

made  offers  for  to  marry  her\  If  a  ship's  cook  that  was  turn- 
ing settler,  Mas'r  Davy,  didn't  make  offers  fur  to  marry 
Missis  Gummidge,  I'm  Gormed — and  I  can't  say  no  fairer 
than  that !" 

I  never  saw  Agnes  laugh  so.  The  sudden  ecstasy  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  delightful  to  her,  that  she  could 
not  leave  off  laughing;  and  the  more  she  laughed  the  more 
she  made  me  laugh,  and  the  greater  Mr.  Peggotty's  ecstasy 
became,  and  the  more  he  rubbed  his  legs. 

"  And  what  did  Mrs.  Gummidge  say  ?"  I  asked,  when  I 
was  grave  enough. 

"  If  you'll  believe  me,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  Missis 
Gummidge,  'stead  of  saying  'thank  you,  I'm  much  obleeged 
to  you,  I  ain't  agoing  fur  to  change  my  condition  at  my 
time  of  life,'  up'd  with  a  bucket  as  was  standing  by,  and 
laid  it  over  that  theer  ship's  cook's  head  till  he  sung  out  for 
help,  and  I  went  in  and  reskied  of  him." 

Mr.  Peggotty  burst  into  a  great  roar  of  laughter,  and  Agnes 
and  I  both  kept  him  company. 

"But  I  must  say  this,  for  the  good  creetur,"  he  resumed, 
wiping  his  face  when  we  were  quite  exhausted;  "she  has 
been  all  she  said  she'd  be  to  us,  and  more.  She's  the  wil- 
lingest,  the  truest,  the  honestest-helping  woman,  Mas'r  Davy, 
as  ever  draw'd  the  breath  of  life.  I  have  never  known  her 
to  be  lone  and  lorn,  for  a  single  minute,  not  even  when  the 
colony  was  all  afore  us,  and  we  was  new  to  it.  And  think- 
ing of  the  old  'un  is  a  thing  she  never  done,  I  do  assure  you, 
since  she  left  England  !" 

"  Now,  last,  not  least,  Mr.  Micawber,  "  said  I.  "  He  has 
paid  off  every  obligation  he  incurred  here^even  to  Trad- 
dles's  bill,  you  remember,  my  dear  Agnes — and  therefore  we 
may  take  it  for  granted  that  he  is  doing  well.  But  what  is 
the  latest  news  of  him  ?" 

Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  smile,  put  his  hand  in  his  breast- 
pocket, and  produced  a  flat-folded,  paper  parcel,  from 
which  he  took  out,  with  much  care,  a  little  odd-looking 
newspaper. 

"  You  are  to  unnerstan',  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  he,  "  as  we 
have  left  the  Bush  now,  being  so  well  to  do;  and  have  gone 
right  away  round  to  Port  Middlebay  Harbor,  where  theer's 
what  we  call  a  town." 

"  Mr.  Micawber  was  in  the  Bush  near  you  ?"  said  I. 

"Bless  you,  yes,"   said   Mr.    Peggotty,  'Vand  turned  to 


862  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

with  a  will.  I  never  wish  to  meet  a  better  gen'lman  for 
turning  to,  with  a  will.  I've  seen  that  theer  bald  head  of 
his,  a  perspiring  in  the  sun,  Mas'r  Davy,  'till  I  a'most  thowt 
it  would  have  melted  away.     And  now  he's  a  Magistrate." 

**  A  Magistrate,  eh  ?"  said  I. 

Mr.  Peggotty  pointed  to  a  certain  paragraph  in  the  news- 
paper, where  I  read  aloud  as  follows,  from  the  "  Port  Mid- 
dlebay  Times:" 

"l^^'The  public  dinner  to  our  distinguished  fellow- 
colonist  and  townsman,  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire, 
Port  Middlebay  District  Magistrate,  came  off  yesterday  in 
the  large  room  of  the  Hotel,  which  was  crowded  to  suffoca- 
tion. It  is  estimated  that  not  fewer  than  forty- seven  per- 
sons must  have  been  accommodated  with  dinner  at  one 
time,  exclusive  of  the  company  in  the  passage  and  on  the 
stairs.  The  beauty,  fashion,  and  exclusiveness  of  Port  Mid- 
dlebay, flocked  to  do  honor  to  one  so  deservedly  esteemed, 
so  highly  talented,  and  so  widely  popular.  Doctor  Mell 
(of  Colonial  Salem- House  Grammar  School,  Port  Middle- 
bay)  presided,  and  on  his  right  sat  the  distinguished  guest. 
After  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  and  the  singing  of  Non 
Nobis  (beautifully  executed,  and  in  which  we  were  at  no 
loss  to  distinguish  the  bell-like  notes  of  that  gifted  amateur, 
Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior),  the  usual  loyal  and 
patriotic  toasts  were  severally  given,  and  rapturously  re- 
ceived. Doctor  Mell,  in  a  speech  replete  with  feeling,  then 
proposed  '  Our  distinguished  Guest,  the  ornament  of  our 
town.  May  he  never  leave  us  but  to  better  himself,  and 
may  his  success  among  us  be  such  as  to  render  his  bettering 
himself  impossible  !*  The  cheering  with  which  the  toast 
was  received  defies  description.  Again  and  again  it  rose 
and  fell  like  the  waves  of  ocean.  At  length  all  was  hushed, 
and  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  presented  himself  to  re- 
turn thanks.  Far  be  it  from  us,  in  the  present  comparatively 
imperfect  state  of  the  resources  of  our  establishment,  to 
endeavor  to  follow  our  distinguished  townsman  through  the 
smoothly-flowing  periods  of  his  polished  and  highly-ornate 
address  !  Suffice  it  to  observe  that  it  was  a  masterpiece  of 
eloquence;  and  that  in  those  passages  in  which  he  more 
particularly  traced  his  own  successful  career  to  its . 
source,  and  warned  the  younger  portion  of  his  auditory  from 
the  shoals  of  ever  incurring  pecuniary  liabilities  which  they 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  863 

were  unable  to  liquidate,  brought  a  tear  into  the  manliest 
eye  present.  The  remaining  toasts  were  Doctor  Mell; 
Mrs.  Micawber  (who  gracefully  bowed  her  acknowledg- 
ments from  the  side-door,  where  a  galaxy  of  beauty  was 
elevated  on  chairs,  at  once  to  witness  and  adorn  the  grati- 
fying scene);  Mrs.  Ridger  Begs  (late  Miss  Micawber); 
Mrs.  Mell;  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior  (who 
convulsed  the  assembly  by  humorously  remarking  that  he 
found  himself  unable  to  return  thanks  in  a  speech,  but 
would  do  so,  with  their  permission,  in  a  song);  Mrs.  Mic- 
awber's  Family  (well  known,  it  is  needless  to  remark,  in 
the  mother-country,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.).  At  the  conclusion  of 
the  proceedings  the  tables  were  cleared  as  if  by  art-magic 
for  dancing.  Among  the  votaries  of  Terpsichore,  who  dis- 
ported themselves  until  Sol  gave  warning  for  departure, 
Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior,  and  the  lovely  and  ac- 
complished Miss  Helena,  fourth  daughter  of  Doctor  Mell, 
were  particularly  remarkable." 

I  was  looking  back  to  the  name  of  Dr.  Mell,  pleased  to 
have  discovered,  in  these  happier  circumstances,  Mr.  Mell, 
formerly  poor  pinched  usher  to  my  Middlesex  magistrate, 
when  Mr.  Peggotty  pointing  to  another  part  of  the  paper, 
my  eyes  rested  on  my  own  name,  and  I  read  thus: 

"  TO  DAVID  COPPERFIELD,  ESQUIRE, 


"  My  Dear  Sir, 

"Years  have  elapsed,  since  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  ocularly  perusing  the  lineaments,  now  familiar  to 
the  imaginations  of  a  considerable  portion  of  the  civilized 
world. 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  though  estranged  (by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances over  which"  I  have  had  no  control)  from  the  per- 
sonal society  of  the  friend  and  companion  of  my  youth,  I 
have  not  been  unmindful  of  his  soaring  flight.  Nor  have  I 
been  debarred, 

Though  seas  between  us  braid  ha'  roared, 

(Burns)  from  participating  in  the  intellectual  feasts  he  has 
spread  before  us. 


S64  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  I  cannot,  therefore,  allow  of  the  departure  from  this  place 
of  an  individual  whom  we  mutually  respect  and  esteem, 
without,  my  dear  sir,  taking  this  public  opportunity  of 
thanking  you,  on  my  own  behalf,  and,  I  may  undertake  to 
add,  on  that  of  the  whole  of  the  Inhabitants  of  Port  Mid- 
dlebay,  for  the  gratification  of  which  you  are  the  minister- 
ing agent. 

**  Go  on,  my  dear  sir!  You  are  not  unknown  here,  you 
are  not  unappreciated.  Though  '  remote/  we  are  neither 
*  unfriended,'  *  melancholy,'  nor  (I  may  add)'  slow.'  Go  on, 
my  dear  sir,  in  your  Eagle  course!  The  Inhabitants  of  Port 
Middlebay  may  at  least  aspire  to  watch  it,  with  delight, 
with  entertainment,  with  instruction! 

"  Among  the  eyes  elevated  towards  you  from  this  portion 
of  the  globe,  will  ever  be  found,  while  it  has  light  and  life, 
"The 

"Eye 

"  Appertaining  to 

"  WiLKINS  MiCAWBER, 

"Magistrate." 

*  I  found,  on  glancing  at  the  remaining  contents  of  the 
newspaper,  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  a  diligent  and  esteemed 
correspondent  of  that  Journal.  There  was  another  letter 
from  him  in  the  same  paper,  touching  a  bridge;  there  was 
an  advertisement  of  a  collection  of  similar  letters  by  him, 
to  be  shortly  republished,  in  a  volume,  "  with  considerable 
additions;"  and,  unless  lam  very  much  mistaken,  the  Lead- 
ing Article  was  his  also. 

We  talked  much  of  Mr.  Micawber  on  many  other  even- 
ings, while  Mr.  Peggotty  remained  with  us.  He  lived  with 
us  during  the  whole  term  of  his  stay — which,  I  think,  was 
something  less  than  a  month — and  his  sister  and  my  aunt 
came  to  London  to  see  him.  Agnes  and  I  parted  from  him 
aboard-ship,  when  he  sailed;  and  we  shall  never  part  from 
him  more,  on  earth. 

But  before  he  left,  he  went  with  me  to  Yarmouth,  to  see  a 
little  tablet  I  had  put  up  in  the  churchyard,  to  the  memory 
of  Ham.  While  I  was  copying  the  plain  inscription  for  him 
at  his  request,  I  saw  him  stoop,  and  gather  a  tuft  of  grass 
from  the  grave,  and  a  little  earth. 

"  For  Em'ly,"  he  said,  as  he  put  it  in  his  breast.  "  I  prom- 
ised, Mas'r  Davy," 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  $65 


CHAPTER    LXIV. 

A    LAST    RETROSPECT. 

And  now  my  written  story  ends.  I  look  back,  once  more 
— for  the  last  time — before  I  close  these  leaves. 

I  see  myself  with  Agnes  at  my  side,  journeying  along  the 
load  of  life.  I  see  our  children  and  our  friends  around  us, 
and  I  hear  the  roar  of  many  voices,  not  indifferent  to  me  as 
I  travel  along. 

What  faces  are  the  most  distinct  to  me  in  the  fleeting 
crowd?  Lo,  these;  all  turning  to  me  as  I  ask  my  thoughts 
the  question! 

Here  is  my  aunt,  in  stronger  spectacles,  an  old  woman  of 
four- score  years  and  more,  but  upright  yet,  and  a  steady 
walker  of  six  miles  at  a  stretch  in  winter  weather. 

Always  with  her,  comes  Peggotty,  my  old  nurse,  likewise 
in  spectacles,  accustomed  to  do  needle-work  at  night  very 
close  to  the  lamp,  but  never  sitting  down  to  it  without  a  bit 
of  wax  candle,  a  yard  measure  in  a  little  house,  and  a  work- 
box  with  a  picture  of  St.  Paul's  upon  the  lid. 

The  cheeks  and  arms  of  Peggotty,  so  hard  and  red  in  my 
childish  days,  when  I  wondered  why  the  birds  didn't  peck 
her  in  preference  to  apples,  are  shriveled  now;  and  her  eyes, 
that  used  to  darken  their  whole  neighborhood  in  her  face, 
are  fainter  (though  they  glitter  still);  but  her  rough  fore- 
finger, which  I  once  associated  with  a  pocket  nutmeg  grater, 
is  just  the  same,  and  when  I  see  my  least  child  catch  at  it 
as  it  totters  from  my  aunt  to  her,  I  think  of  our  little  par- 
lor at  home,  when  I  could  scarcely  walk.  My  aunt's  old 
disappointment  is  set  right  now.  She  is  godmother  to  a 
real  living  Betsey  Trotwood;  and  Dora  (the  next  in  order) 
says  she  spoils  her. 

There  is  something  bulky  in  Peggotty's  pocket.  It  is 
nothing  smaller  than  the  Crocodile-Book,  which  is  in  rather 
a  dilapidated  condition  by  this  time,  with  divers  of  the 
leaves  torn  and  stitched  across,  but  which  Peggotty  exhibits 
to  the  children  as  a  precious  relic.  I  find  it  very  curious  to 
see  my  own  infant  face,  looking  up  at  me  from  the  Crocodile 
stories;  and  to  be  reminded  by  it  of  my  old  acquaintance 
Brooks  of  Sheffield. 

Among  my  boys,  this  summer  holiday  time,  I  see  an  old 


866  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

man  making  giant  kites,  and  gazing  at  them  in  the  air,  with 
a  delight  for  which  there  are  no  words.  He  greets  me 
rapturously,  and  whispers,  with  many  nods  and  wink^, 
"  Trotwood,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  shall  finish  the 
Memorial  when  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  that  your 
aunt's  the  most  extraordinary  woman  in  the  world,  sir!" 

Who  is  this  bent  lady  supporting  herself  by  a  stick,  and 
showing  me  a  countenance  in  which  there  are  some  traceiJ 
of  old  pride  and  beauty,  feebly  contending  with  a  querulous, 
imbecile,  fretful  wandering  of  the  mind?  She  is  in  a  gar- 
den; and  near  her  stands  a  sharp,  dark,  withered  woman, 
with  a  white  scar  on  her  lip.     Let  me  hear  what  they  say; 

"  Rosa,  I  have  forgotten  this  gentleman's  name." 

Rosa  bends  over  and  calls  to  her,  "  Mr.  Copperfield." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  I  am  sorry  to  observe  you 
are  in  mourning,     I  hope  time  will  be  good  to  you!" 

Her  impatient  attendant  scolds  her,  tells  her  I  am  not  in 
mourning,  bids  her  look  again,  tries  to  rouse  her. 

"  You  have  seen  my  son,  sir,"  says  the  elder  lady.  "  Are 
you  reconciled?" 

Looking  fixedly  at  me,  she  puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
and  moans.  Suddenly  she  cries,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  Rosa, 
come  to  me.  He  is  dead!"  Rosa,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  by 
turns  caresses  her,  and  quarrels  with  her;  now  fiercely  tell- 
ing her,  "I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  did!" — now 
soothing  her  to  sleep  on  her  breast,  like  a  sick  child.  Thus 
I  leave  them;  thus  I  always  find  them;  thus  they  wear  their 
time  away  from  year  to  year. 

What  ship  comes  sailing  home  from  India,  and  what 
English  lady  is  this,  married  to  a  growling  old  Scotch  Croesus 
with  great  flaps  of  ears.     Can  this  be  Julia  Mills? 

Indeed  it  is  Julia  Mills,  peevish  and  fine,  with  a  black 
man  to  carry  cards  and  letters  in  a  golden  salver,  and  a  cop- 
per-colored woman  in  linen,  with  a  bright  handkerchief 
round  her  head,  to  serve  her  Tiffin  in  her  dressing-room. 
But  Julia  keeps  no  diary  in  these  days;  never  sings  Affec- 
tion's Dirge;  eternally  quarrels  with  the  old  Scotch  Croesus, 
who  is  a  sort  of  yellow  bear  with  a  tanned  hide.  Julia  is 
steeped  in  money  to  the  throat,  and  talks  and  thinks  of  noth- 
ing else.     I  liked  her  better  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara. 

Or  perhaps  this /V  the  Desert  of  Sahara!  for,  though  Julia 
has  a  stately  house,  and  mighty  company,  and  sumptuous  din- 
ners every  day,  I  see  no  green  growth  near  her;  nothing  that 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  C67 

can  ever  come  to  fruit  or  flower.  What  Julia  calls  "  society," 
I  see  among  it  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  from  his  Patent  Place, 
sneering  at  the  hand  that  gave  it  to  him,  and  speaking  to 
me  of  the  Doctor,  as  "  so  charmingly  antique." 

But  when  society  is  the  name  of  such  hollow  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  Julia,  and  when  its  breeding  is  professed  indiffer- 
ence to  everything  that  can  advance  or  can  retard  mankind, 
I  think  we  must  have  lost  ourselves  in  the  Same  Desert  of 
Sahara,  and  had  better  find  the  way  out. 

And  lo,  the  Doctor,  always  our  friend,  laboring  at  his 
Dictionary  (somewhere  about  the  letter  D),  and  happy  in 
his  home  and  wife.  Also,  the  old  Soldier,  on  a  considerably 
reduced  footing,  and  by  no  means  so  influential  as  in  the 
days  of  yore! 

Working  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  with  a  busy 
aspect,  and  his  head  (where  he  is  not  bald)  made  more  re- 
bellious than  ever  by  the  constant  friction  of  his  lawyer's 
wig,  I  come,  in  a  later  time,  upon  my  dear  old  Traddles. 
His  table  is  covered  with  thick  piles  of  papers;  and  I  say  as 
I  look  around  me: 

"  If  Sophy  wereiyour  clerk,  now,  Traddles,  she  would  have 
enough  to  do!" 

"You  may  say  that,  my  dear  Copperfield!  But  those 
were  capital  da'ys  too,  in  Holborn  Court!     Were  they  not?" 

"  When  she  told  you  you  would  be  a  Judge?  But  it  was 
not  the  town  talk  then!'' 

'*  At  all  events,"  says  Traddles,  "  if  I  ever  am  one " 

"  Why,  you  well  know  you  will  be." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Copperfield,  when  I  am  one,  I  shall  tell 
the  story,  as  I  said  I  would." 

We  walk  away,  arm  in  arm,  I  am  going  to  have  a  family 
dinner  with  Traddles.  It  is  Sophy's  birthday;  and,  on  our 
road,  Traddles  discourses  to  me  of  the  good  fortune  he  has 
enjoyed. 

"  I  really  have  been  able,  my  dear  Copperfield,  to  do  all 
that  I  had  most  at  heart.  There's  the  Reverend  Horace 
promoted  to  that  living  at  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year;  there  are  our  two  boys  receiving  the  very  best  educa- 
tion, and  distinguishing  themselves  as  steady  scholars  and 
good  fellows;  there  are  three  of  the  girls  married\ery  com- 
fortably; there  are  three  more  keeping  house  for  the  Rev- 
erend Horace  since  Mrs  Crewler's  decease;  and  all  of  them 
happy." 


S68  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Except — "  I  suggest. 

"  Except  the  Beauty,"  says  Traddles.  "Yes.  It  was  very 
unfortunate  that  she  should  marry  such  a  vagabond.  But 
there  was  a  certain  dash  and  glare  about  him  that  caught 
her.  However,  now  we  have  got  her  safe  at  our  house,  and 
got  rid  of  him,  we  must  cheer  her  up  again." 

Traddles's  house  is  one  of  the  very  houses — or  it  easily  may 
have  been — which  he  and  Sophy  used  to  parcel  out,  in  their 
evening  walks.  It  is  a  large  house;  but  Traddles  keeps  his 
papers  in  his  dressing-room,  and  his  boots  with  his  papers; 
and  he  and  Sophy  squeeze  themselves  into  upper  rooms,  re- 
serving the  best  bed-rooms  for  the  Beauty  and  the  girls. 
There  is  no  room  to  spare  in  the  house;  for  more  of  the 
girls"  are  here,  and  always  are  here,  by  some  accident  or 
other,  than  I  know  how  to  count.  Here,  when  we  go  in,  is 
a  crowd  of  them  running  down  to  the  door,  and  handing 
Traddles  about  to  be  kissed,  until  he  is  out  of  breath.  Here, 
established  in  perpetuity,  is  the  poor  Beauty,  a  widow  with 
a  little  girl;  here,  at  dinner  on  Sophy's  birth- day,  are  the 
three  married  girls  with  their  three  husbands,  and  one  of 
the  husband's  brothers,  and  another  husband's  cousin,  and 
another  husband's  sister,  who  appears  to  me  to  be  engaged 
to  the  cousin.  Traddles,  exactly  the  same  simple,  unaffec- 
ted fellow  as  he  ever  was,  sits  at  the  foot  of  ttie  large  table 
like  a  Patriarch;  and  Sophy  beams  upon  him,  from  the  head, 
across  a  cheerful  space  that  is  certainly  not  glittering  with 
Britannia  metal. 

And  now  as  I  close  my  task,  subduing  my  desire  to  linger 
yet,  these  faces  fade  away.  But,  one  face,  shining  on  me 
like  a  Heavenly  light  by  which  I  see  all  other  objects,  is 
above  them  and  beyond  them  all.     And  that  remains. 

I  turn  my  head,  and  see  it,  in  its  beautiful  serenity,  be- 
side me.  My  lamp  burns  low,  and  I  have  written  far  into 
the  night;  but  the  dear  presence,  without  which  I  were 
nothing,  bears  me  company. 

Oh  Agnes,  oh  my  soul,  so  may  thy  face  be  by  me  when  I 
close  my  life  indeed;  so  may  I,  when  realities  are  melting 
from  me  like  the  shadows  which  I  now  dismiss,  still  find 
thee  near  me,  pointing  upwards! 

THE  END. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 


4 


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r ,' 


^lii^s-iaiita 


REC'D  LD 

MAR  1 3  195! 


REC'D  Lu 


JUL  3    1960 


JANlC   ■ 


MAR  1 5  136] 
16Dec'64l 


REC'D  LD 

JAN    V65-2PM 


51 


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LD  21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


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